My relationship with reading has always been fraught. Like most writers I know, I often feel overwhelmed, even affronted, by the stacks of books that, despite my best efforts, steadily grow by the side of my bed. Like most writers I know, I’ve never felt like I read enough, am reading enough, have read enough. Like most writers, my reading habits are shameful, lazy, perhaps disingenuous.

Whoever said writing and reading, there are no short cuts, should have added procrastination and excuse-making—the bedfellows of an emerging writer. Most people don’t want to admit it, but reading, like writing, is hard. It isn’t, sadly, the sort of art form you can just put on in the background at a dinner party. You can’t stroll around a book pretending to understand its complex geometry, remarking I like this one. You can’t just mindlessly scroll on your phone while the book automatically skips to the next chapter. Reading is demanding. Reading is political.