Of all the things an author can admit to, ‘I haven’t been reading,’ is among the most shameful. A writer who doesn’t read is the literary equivalent of a skinny chef: untrustworthy, their tastes and motives questionable. Admitting to not reading feels equal to outing myself as an imposter. ‘Why should anybody read my work, if I’m not reading?’ I wonder, when I find myself in a reading slump. ‘Why write at all?’

Yet the relationship between reading and writing isn’t always a harmonious exchange of language, ideas, and inspirations. At times, my reading-self and writing-self seem like conjoined twins, forced to share the same organs. There’s not enough of me to go around.