In becom­ing a nov­el­ist I soon lost the one thing I had loved all my life.  

Read­ing.

Hard to imag­ine, right? My dad likes to brag that I had read every book in the school library by the time I was eight.  

But now it was as if I had traded my love of read­ing for a new love, that of writ­ing. And writ­ers need to read to write. If suc­cess comes with sac­ri­fice must it be the one thing that I need to do to be a writer? Could the two senses, writ­ing and read­ing, not coincide?   

It struck me in way it was like hav­ing your first baby. When my son was born all my love and affec­tion went to him. It was so intense, this new love. It col­ored my entire world. It was a force that hit me and cov­ered me in need, dri­ving all my energy to it. Moth­ers know what I am talk­ing about. You love your hus­band but a child–that is a crazy intense love that takes you unaware. Even­tu­ally, I found my own iden­tity again as a mother and wife–and author. I had bal­ance again.  

And I real­ized I needed to find bal­ance as a new author. I had become so sucked into the world of cre­at­ing. My brain burst with words, ideas, dia­logue, action, and char­ac­ters speak­ing to me. I couldn’t slow my thoughts down. And in doing that I lost my love of read­ing. All of my energy went toward reading.  

I knew I would need to force myself to read. Slow down my brain and allot time to read. And I did. From book to book I moved. I would read a few pages then move on like some wan­der­ing nomad. I couldn’t find my joy again. I couldn’t con­cen­trate on the words.  

Then a friend told me some­thing that changed every­thing. She said now that I was an author I wouldn’t be happy with easy reads. I would need more stim­u­lat­ing books to chal­lenge me. She was right. I had become bored with read­ing. I needed more. More from an author in the sto­ries they cre­ated and words they chose. I wanted to be affected by what I read. Changed, trans­formed, and moved. I didn’t want to just occupy my time with empty enter­tain­ment, like watch­ing TV. 

I kept look­ing for the book to change me. One day I hap­pened upon a sweet young adult book, Spar­row Road. It was beau­ti­ful and sad and hope­ful. I cried (twice) as I read it straight through. I had fallen in love again.   

Stephen King said, “The more you read, the less apt you are to make a fool of your­self with your pen.” I aim to be less of a fool for sure.  

So then I thought, why not re-read my favorite books over again? The books I held onto for decades. The ones close to my heart. And that’s just what I’m doing. I’m re-reading White Fang now by Jack Lon­don, then it’s on to Fahren­heit 451 (RIP Ray Brad­bury), The Secret Gar­den, The Crys­tal Cave, and Island of the Blue Dol­phins.  

As a writer I need to keep read­ing. And I’m glad I found my lost-love again. The Argen­tin­ian writer, Jorge Luis Borges, said “I have always imag­ined that Par­adise will be a kind of library.” I’m glad my par­adise is back. Have you lost and found your kind of par­adise lately?