Sometimes I’ll go for a week or two, or perhaps (gasp) even several weeks, without a book in progress. This sounds like very uncharacteristic behaviour for a self-confessed bibliophile.
Now, before you demand I relinquish my bibliophile status, it’s time I admitted something: I’m a binge reader.
Let’s take a look at the definition of ‘binge’ from the Oxford dictionary:
A period of excessive indulgence in an activity, especially drinking alcohol or eating.
In the context of books this means that when I read, I read. Yesterday I started a book around afternoon tea and finished it before I went to sleep at midnight (breaking for dinner and my son’s bedtime, because while I might binge read, I encourage responsible consumption of literature).
In fact, this last week the Reading Gods were kind. They understood that I’d been through something of a dry spell when it came to my reading. So…
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