I’m taking a break from writing this week and reminding myself why I’m a writer. I’m reading like a maniac, and it’s taking me back to when I was a kid. I grew up only a few houses down from the library–my father is currently the president of the board of trustees of that same library–and reading has always been my pleasure and my escape. So far this week, I’ve read the fairly serious Jane Austen update Death comes to Pemberley, the much-raved-about Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and the sexy and fun Jill Shalvis novel Simply Irresistible.  I feel like I’m on vacation, indulging in reading and tackling the stack of to-reads. I believe I may have inherited this quality of loving reading almost anything. My grandfather, whom I never had the pleasure of knowing because he died right before I was born, was notorious for always having a pile of books by his chair and reading an entire book every evening. He would read anything: popular fiction, westerns, mysteries, or nonfiction. Imagine how much reading we’d do if we turned off the television every evening and tackled the stack by an easy chair. This would also mean consuming fewer chips because I have standards: I don’t eat and read at the same time. The reading binge continues with a Tessa Dare marathon the rest of the week. I have a great leather chair waiting for me by the radiator.