Once upon a time there was a young girl who thought that her life would be quite marvelous if everyone would leave her alone and let her read. She read whenever she could find the time. Between classes (or hiding paperbacks inside her textbooks). During meals. Late at night with a flashlight under the covers… (Lest we think said girl was not fully engaging her Renaissance sensibilites, we’ll note here that she also participated in other extracurricular activities.)
For the first time in what seems like years, I took an afternoon and spent it largely on reading. I can’t remember the last time I gave myself permission to just do that (and not fret overmuch about the other things crowding my desk). At the end of the day I’ve read one full manuscript, a novelette, two proposals, and several outlines. (I also took breaks between each item to answer voicemails and emails.) It took me an entire week to get through the last manuscript I read as I went through it a chunk each day. Now I have this rather daunting looking pile of notes to sort out and convert into sentences readable to others. And I’ve put a surprisingly teensy dent in the amount of pages sitting by my desk awaiting my attention, leading me to remark to myself: “The best thing about being an agent is never running out things to read. The worst thing about being an agent is never running of things to read.” And, now… I’m going to read something with cover art attached to it just as soon as I make some dinner.