Writing, Not Reading.

Having finished the John Grisham book A Time to Kill only a few days ago, which I really enjoyed, I've already set to work on its follow-up, Sycamore Row. 

As I wrote the other day, it's nice to be back on a bit of a reading streak; there's little more relaxing than being in the grip of a satisfying book. While I've always been an active reader, I sometimes get out of the habit, particularly with fiction, though I don't know why really; perhaps it's because any time I spend not writing makes me feel guilty, which is a ridiculous motivation when I should be doing it because I enjoy it.

It doesn't help that I keep leaving writing my blog until late in the day, which is the worst and least productive time to do it. This is something I mean to address, to prevent it from morphing into a clumsy diary, which it feels like at the moment; yesterday's post was crap, for example, though that was mainly due to tiredness; all the more reason to find an earlier time to do it. Anyhoo: back to my book... 

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