Speaking of reading addictions - I sent you a friend request at Pottermore. The # in my HP Universe name is 36 (and I'm a proud Ravenclaw!)
Here's a column I wrote about my destructive reading addiction. I worried when I wrote this that it would be too dark for the newspaper, but I guess newspaper readers are a good audience for this sort of confession.
This is simultaneously one of the most negative and most accurate things I've ever read about reading as a hobby.
I know ... it's dark, right? (Thanks for the accuracy nod.) I decided not to give it an upbeat "reading is fundamental!' spin at the end.
I liked it a lot, mostly because I really sympathized with it. On any given day I am often the only person I see reading in public, and usually I wonder what's wrong with everyone else. Once in a while, I wonder, "What's wrong with me?"
You look around you and think, "How can they be satisfied with this? Just this and nothing else?"
But don't you think they think the same thing about us? Books are colorless, they don't talk or have music. They have hundreds of pages in little tiny writing, and you might spend a month reading a book that turns out to be terrible. If you're not clued in to the mystery of literature, it must look like an awful waste of time.