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I wonder why I don’t give myself permission more often to drop everything and read. Since I love books, one would think that I would be curled up with one every chance I get. Unless I am sick, I feel guilty doing it. Perhaps it is because laundry is breathing down my neck or the garage is giving me the stink-eye because it needs a major cleaning. Maybe it is because my husband is toiling away at work to support my lifestyle and I couldn’t let my thanks to him be my acting like the Queen of Sheba. Who was the Queen of Sheba anyway? An avid reader perchance?

Travel allows me the luxury of reading time. Waiting for a flight at an airport and airplane rides would be torture if not for a book. It made me uneasy when on a flight to Paris, the woman next to me didn’t pass the time reading. She didn’t even pick up the airline magazine or SkyMall catalog. I wanted to hand her my book and say, “read lady!” I didn’t because then what would I do? Stare into middle-space like she had been doing?

It also makes me uncomfortable if I don’t have a line-up waiting for me when I finish reading a book. The result is I have gathered masses of books around me like little friends. They are all wondering when I am going to pick them up.

They say (I wonder who is the “they” is – Ms. Sheba?) that reading helps one to be a better writer. Maybe I should disembark from the “Guilt Train” and think of reading as a way to better my craft, like on-the-job training.

With that . . . I am off to snuggle with my book.

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