I love to read, fiction especially. I love the smell of new books. Heck, I love the smell of the old books. I love it, but I don’t do it anymore. I mean, I’ll certainly pick up a People Magazine in the waiting room at my dentist’s office and read all about the new child that Brad and Angelina just adopted, but I rarely ever pick up an actual, legitimate book anymore. Part of it is that I know myself too well. If I like a book, I tend to get so wrapped up in it that I can’t do anything else until I finish it, and then everything around me suffers (including beauty sleep and even my poor children’s meals).