I must admit, I usually avoid answering queries about what I’m reading. It seems a question so embroiled in judgement. Is what I read a judgment of what I do not? Will my taste as a writer be judged by my choice—is it too populist, too literary, too genre? Part of me knows that this is absurd, a fear brought on by imposter syndrome or some other unnamed paranoid condition that infects those who write. Even so, the self-consciousness is there and hard to shake.

The reality is that I rarely choose my own list anymore—especially where fiction is concerned. My reading is comprised of the work of writers with whom I speak on panels, new books I’m asked to endorse and the latest releases of friends. I do still browse bookshops and select novels for no other reason than the title, or the cover or the jacket blurb caught my eye. But even as I hand over my credit card and hug my purchase to my chest, I know it will just sit on my shelf. Sit until I get through the stack I must read. Until the world finally slows down.