I spend hours at the library. I read and read.

Why do all this reading, I wonder? I read, I

think, because it is the way I sink into the

hearts and minds of invented characters, who incarnate themselves in

the odd intersections of apparently disparate fields, and who then,

if I’m lucky, manage to understand and articulate what I

cannot. Reading, which gives me access to lives I have

not lived, am not living, probably will not live, is

how I find my way to writing: or how I

find my way back to writing after the dry spells.


Paraphrases from the essay “The Sea of Information” by Andrea Barrett.