Care posted about why she reads on her blog, and I have decided to respond with my own post, like Dewey over at The Hidden Side of a Leaf.

I can’t remember ever not reading. It’s something I’ve always done, even when I was a tiny kid. Now it’s such a habit that I absolutely have to read every night before bed. Even if I’m bed-spinningly, bucket-pukingly drunk-as-a-skunk and I can’t focus on the page, I still have to read before sleeping. It’s another one of those OCD things, ya’ know.

Also, I read because it makes me cool. Nothing makes me feel more noticed or desired than toting around a heavy tome, especially if it’s written by a highly regarded author, like Tom Clancy or Nora Roberts ( : (If you don’t believe this, read my Sylvia Plath post). I like to flash the books I’m reading at complete strangers so that they’ll know how deep and worldly and absolutely brilliant I am. Sometimes this backfires, especially if the book I flash has a cover like this:

Mainly, though, I read because it makes me feel like I’m part of something greater than my own little life. Reading is a wonderful escape and it’s highly personal and the best novels can transform me, at least for a little while.

And this is why I read.

The End