I always believed I was a fairly slow reader. It doesn't really matter I suppose. Do I enjoy what I read? Yes. Does my father, the man who blows through two hardcover new releases in a 8 hour period while waiting to have surgery also enjoy his books? I assume so. But what I have come to determine over the past three days, a period of time in which I purchased a new book, read only that title and finished only 10 pages, is that I do not read slowly but read sporadically. What do I mean? I mean that I read a paragraph and am inspired and begin jotting notes in the margins. Then I'll make it through another paragraph, dog ear and abandon the page altogether. I love to read, I drool and spatter the pages of good prose with my saliva, but the time I have to to write is so minimal that I hoard it like a squirrel would acorns in November. My point, yes I do have one, it that when I'm and gray and wear matching purple paisley dresses with my girlfriend, then I'll worry about not reading quickly enough. Until then, slow sporadic consumption of words with intermittent pit stops for chicken scratch will have to do.
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