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I traveled with novels the same way people traveled with their vape pens—glued in my hands. Imagine being in an awkward situation and you didn’t have something to occupy your hands with. Books had saved me multiple times on the city buses. You’d be shocked at how many times I’d escaped into reading during unpleasant commutes around the city.
One of the only consistent things in my life was the fact I was going to read all the books possible. I was already at two hundred and fifty for the year, and I had no doubt I’d be able to reach my goal of three hundred and sixty-five by New Year’s Eve.

