I used to love to read.

I read so much that I'd stay up past my bedtime with a flashlight or stay on "the throne" until my butt hurt (or until I finished a chapter, whichever came first).

These days, I read far less for pleasure and more for work.

But, when I get a chance, I pick up something and read. It may have taken me two months to finish the 1946 Pulitzer Prize winner, but it was worth it. And I followed that one with the 1996 novel that many say was written in the same vein (and caused some major headaches for its author, who wanted to remain anonymous). It wasn't as long and there were far fewer words per page, but it still took two weeks. And I savored each page I read.

Sure, I could've seen the movie adaptation of either of these, but I much prefer a good read to a good film. In fact, I'm one of those people who, after watching a movie whose story was adapted from a book, will always say that "the book was better."

I love books. And one look at my two tall bookcases will second that. There are books arranged by type, by size, in alphabetical order by author. There are books in front of other books and books stacked on top of those books. And there are books that don't even fit in the bookcases.

What's an avid reader to do?

You see, not only do I love to read, I love to buy books. I must have dozens of books, bought over the last decade, that I haven't even read yet. Some are hidden from view, while others are right beside my bed.

Before I was a writer, I was a reader. I think it's time to go back to my roots.