One of the best things about writing a book – one with several volumes – is that reading, the pleasure I often feel guilty about (reading isn´t work, according to “normal” folks; I should be working, dancing, doing, travelling and so forth), becomes part of the job.
I can make time for reading under the justification of “working on the book”, not for pleasure. I also skip the readings I should be doing – sociological studies directly related to the subjects I´m approaching in my book – and delight in stuff that has no apparent use for the work in question. It feels like cheating on a diet – so damn sweet.
Cheating delights Working tools, at the moment:
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert (talk about “I didn´t see it coming!)
The Invisible Woman, The Story of Nelly Ternan and Charles Dickens by Claire Tomalin (oh, boy, life is a mess – a fascinating one).
P.S: Closing myself, in a nook, with a cuf of tea and these babies on my lap:
ah, bliss! hard work.
P.S2: If this choice of books strikes you as odd – ok, cheesy -, you´re not alone. I ´m worried too. Plus: notice how both women, on the covers of the books, carry exactly the same pose and expression. Damn, I´m fried!