When I was in college deciding on a major, I wanted desperately to do something I liked. I had a few friends who had decided to get into computer science because the money was good. Some did business for the same reason, or they were bored and business seemed easy and open-ended. Some did pre-med or pre-law because their parents demanded they become doctors or lawyers. I picked English (and later Education on the advice of my father -- "I have known quite a few English majors, actually. They all used to wait tables for me at the Olive Garden.") because I loved to read and write. This made total sense to me.
By the time I left college I developed an allergy to reading any piece of writing longer than forty pages. All I did for five years was read. I estimate I read two books per week for five years. This is a lot of books, but there are definitely people out there who read this many books on a regular basis. I figured out after college that sometimes you should not always make what you love your craft, because once it becomes something you must do it takes on a whole new complexion. I worry that one day I will wake up and despise golf now that I am a golf pro.
So the other day Carmina posted about Chris Jones' profile of Roger Ebert in Esquire. I finally read this a couple days ago and it was INCREDIBLE. I could give two shits less about Roger Ebert but I was gripped the whole way through. It was just amazing writing. Immediately after reading that I came upon Conor Friedersdorf's list of his favorite journalism of 2008 and 2009. So far I've read three stories and each one has been brilliant. This is encouraging for me because these mofos are LONG and I've really enjoyed reading all of them. Hopefully these massive pieces will ease me into reading novels again.

I found that I've become more discerning in the books I read (Twilight saga notwithstanding) because of the time investment. For a while I was listening to books on my iPod while I commuted. This made me feel like a retarded person. No TV in the house helps, as does good magazine writing. When JD Salinger died the New Yorker published an issue with all his essays/short stories, that was the tits. Traveling last week and the next have helped me tear through books that have been languishing in my apartment.
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