1) I forget that I’m a writer.
I pick up Harry Potter determined to see how J.K. Rowling weaves the magic she weaves. I decide that I will look at her techniques, the way she gets me involved in the story and how she slides in her humour. Five chapters – that’s all it takes to get me so engrossed that I want to know what happens next (even though I know what happens next) and I don’t look at anything else.
2) I sometimes (often?) imagine meeting my favourite characters and talking to them – and then become woefully depressed when I realise I cannot.
Anne Shirley – I want to meet her, I want her to be my kindred spirit, my bosom friend (even if I come second to Diana Barry). I want to visit Avonlea and walk Birch Path with her. I want to share the joy of the Lake of Shining Waters with her. Why can’t I?
3) I postpone everything.
I can write later. I can work later. I can sleep later. But I have to read NOW!
4) I finish reading and think, will I ever write things as achingly beautiful?
5) The only solution to the problems created by good books is more good books.
Very true. Especially the second point. Often, when the book finishes, I feel like a friend departing. There is an ache of the finality of not meeting them again. And often, I get a bit jealous when I find a friend engrossed in a book that I recently finished. I feel jealous that the character, who spoke and shared and became intimate with me is doing the same to someone else.
I know what you mean! And I also get jealous of that first meeting. Falling in love with a character for the first time is such a precious moment!