I had a person, who shall remain nameless, tell me I read too much.
“You’re wasting your freak’in life at that library of yours, you even pay for? I’ll never wrap my brain around that.”
Is that because you don’t have one?
No, I didn’t say that, my damned Connecticut in play. It’s the only time I wish I hailed from Jersey, or a mob family.
Try telling Victoria Gotti, she reads too much.
For writers, in particular, reading the prose of others is beneficial. It’s like watching the Olympics when you have Dickens, Hamill or Doris Kearns in your lap.
Think pretty girls and charming uncles tickling you beneath the chin.
I know so many people who don’t read at all, social networking taking up too much time. If you’re Tweeting what you had for dinner, A Movable Feast will sadly fall by the wayside.
How about reading it, then Tweeting how great a book it is by Hemingway, even published after his death.
That’s what I call prolific.
What does prolific mean, my cretin of a critic would no doubt ask.
Like Woody Allen says…
LOOK IT UP.
You’ll have to excuse me now.
BECAUSE I’M READING…:)