I’m addicted. I can’t stop. I can do it for hours on end. On the weekends I do it for two days straight. I ignore responsibilities and forego my To Do list.I’d rather do it than anything else. I have a problem. I admit it.

I have a nasty book habit. This became clear to me recently when I received my credit card statement. I am not exagerating when I say that fully half of my purchases were for books. When it’s time for my kids to go to college I’ll point to my bookshelf and say, “Sorry, there’s no money left, mommy spent your future on books.”

I justify my nasty habit by telling myself it’s an occupational requirement. I need to read to inspire my writing. I need to know what’s being published. I need to read what’s selling. But, honestly, I just need to read.

I buy at least two books a week. Every week. Which means they pile up. So I donate them to my local library or children’s organizations. And yet the pile still grows. So when I read that the book industry is suffering, that people don’t read anymore, it makes me sad. Not just because I’m a writer. But because I’m also a reader.