I’ve been on holiday this week, no day job, no writing, no housework, just sitting on the beach, and it’s given me a chance to rediscover the sheer joy of reading just for pleasure.
No, don’t get me wrong. Whatever my reason for reading, I love it. I read everything (almost. I draw the line at certain newspapers and magazines) and I read all the time. But at the moment I am reading either for research or for examples. There is always a point to my reading. But this week, all I’ve read for is fun and it’s been wonderful.
I once got a rejection from a publisher who said she didn’t read for pleasure. How can that be? How can reading become a chore? The idea of that is utterly heartbreaking.
And, on a professional level, if they don’t read for the enjoyment of it, how can they tell if anyone else will enjoy the book?
But this week, I’ve forgotten all that. I have taken a deep breath, leant back in my seat, opened my book and very happily lost myself in books just for the sheer pleasure of it. And that is one of the most joyous sentences I will ever write.