Two years ago, I had a very straightforward reading pattern. Every few days, I'd read a book. I would immerse myself in its characters and storylines, swim in its style, snatch every opportunity throughout the day to return to its enveloping world. Then I would finish it, and start another one.
Things were so simple then.
I wish I could blame it on the Christmas eReader, but my evolution into schizophrenic multimedia literature butterfly started long before it landed in my lap – via iPod and Audible, Twitter and Gutenberg, and brick-like new-writing magazines that take weeks to digest. My reading has taken on a strangely driven, guilty quality, as I try to justify the cost of all those subscriptions and all that hardware by consuming fiction in an unprecedentedly multiplicitous and simultaneous way. Secretly, I long to return to a world in which I had a loving, stable relationship with one paperback at a time.