How lucky I was to grow up pre-Internet, to be shoved into literacy by the absence of shiny electronic objects. I was a reader from the get-go. Props to my late mother who took me to the library every Saturday. We read because that's what there was to do.

I recall a 3-day bout of flu when I was 13, spent not altogether unpleasantly in the company of The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters, an exciting but wordy tome I doubt many 13-year-olds would find appealing now.

Today I have to carve out time for reading. Back then, there was all the time in the world. I read because my parents read. Our house was as quiet as a library after dinner, and there was no such thing as "age appropriate" reading. If I could read it, it was allowed, and as far as I can tell, casting a juvenile eye on Lolita did not turn me into a weirdo.

Lord knows I'm addicted to the Internet, but there's no substitute for losing myself in a really great novel, or even a merely entertaining one. The Internet will amuse you, but a book will feed you.

My tastes are eclectic. I like some of the classics but not all. I tried Dostoyevsky. He's not for me. Edith Wharton I can read all day.

Life's too short to read a book you don't enjoy. Just read. Read like it's 1964.