I used to read all the time. I had a book-a-day habit, sometimes more. Like many voracious readers, I read quickly, averaging 100 pages an hour or more with most fiction. Yes, I miss details, and yes, I don't retain everything. Reading more slowly wouldn't change that for me because it's not a question of speed, but the way I absorb information.

A few years back – probably about the same time that Ginny left and my workload doubled – I stopped reading as much. I started watching more TV and playing more computer games. Even when I'm really into a book, I usually can't devour it the way I used to. My attention span and concentration are fractions of what they used to be. I have to put the book down every 45 minutes or so and do something else, at least for a few minutes. Also, I'm re-reading less than I used to. At this point, I'd say I'm probably not averaging more than a book a week. I'm not happy about that.

So, I was quite pleased last night when I finished my third book this week, especially since I'd been deeply enough into it that I'd been reading for several hours without interruption. Until I looked at the clock and saw that it was almost 3 AM. The 7:30 alarm is never a happy moment for me, but it was particularly unfortunate this morning. I can keep going on roughly six hours' sleep per night for weeks at a time. Less than five hours used to be no problem ten years ago, but now I find it hard to just shrug it off and keep going. Today is going to be a LOOONG day.

Last night's book: Shalador’s Lady by Anne Bishop.