To Read, Perchance to Write

Between all the million-and-one things that currently occupy my time, I’ve been reading.  It is nice to be able to read even in snatches and stolen moments; among other things it reminds me that I, too, in some place at some time, am a writer.  (The writing part of me has been having a difficult time: I’ve committed to the screen some half-dozen beginnings of potentially gorgeous stories, but I don’t seem to have the heart or the strength to complete them, which is very depressing.) 

My reading has been somewhat haphazard, although I have deliberately sought out some books such as Kim Stanley Robinson’s Galileo’s Dream.  Others fell into my lap — a friend stopped by with Alice Munro’s The View from Castle Rock, for instance, and one time when I was in the library, walking out from the rather poorly stocked SF section, I just happened to see Fiction before me, and Barbara Kingsolver, whom I’ve been meaning to read, was right there — not in person but in the form of her books, which is what counts for me at the moment.