I just finished reading a wonderful book. And I have to confess something that I've never admitted before.

I can make confessions here because no one reads my blog. Well, I suppose there are a few people who check in now and then. I'm guessing that most of the people who have ever stumbled across my blog and thought it had anything in it worth reading have long since grown tired of the routine of checking in to see if I've posted anything new. I suspect most of the three or four faithful readers of my blog have given up altogether. But there is probably someone left who is more patient than the others, and there are probably those infinite number of chimpanzees typing on an infinite number of computers for an infinite amount of time, one of whom will accidentally type my URL and find itself staring at these words. Of course, it's grasp of the English language is probably limited, so it probably doesn't make much sense to consider that ape to be part of my audience.

Anyway, back to the book and the confession.

The book is Reading Like a Writer, by Francine Prose. I have to say it's the best book on writing (and on reading) I've ever read. And that leads right into my confession: it's just the second book on writing I've ever read from cover to cover. (The first was On Writing, by Stephen King.)

I've read parts of other books on writing: Bird by Bird, by Annie Lamott, and some of the books we read as assignments in my writing class at UW. But all the great and important books on writing, books that (I've read) should be on the shelf of every writer or wannabe writer, I've never read any of them. Aspects of the Novel, by E. M. Forster, and The Art of Fiction, by John Gardner, are supposed to be two of the most important works of their kind. I've never read either of them.

And actually, that's the least of my confession. If I were truly honest, and I truly believed that no one is ever going to read this, I'd list all the great books and great authors I've never read, and that aren't even at the top of my list of books I want to read. The Scarlet Letter, Jane Eyre, Madame Bovary, Crime and Punishment, War and Peace, Lolita, Brave New World, anything by Jane Austen, William Faulkner, Thomas Hardy, oh, how long the list is!

I found Time Magazine's list of the 100 best English language novels written since 1923. I've read 11 of them. The Modern Library's list of the 100 best novels since 1900: I've read 12 from the board's list, and from the rival list by the Radcliffe Publishing Course, I've read 19. Going back further in time, out of Daniel Burt's list of the 100 greatest novels of all time in all languages, I've read just 10. And from The Observers list of the 100 greatest novels of the last 300 years, I've read 13. (I have to say, these numbers are actually higher than I would have guessed.) I've done even worse in reading non-fiction: just 2 from the Modern Library's list.

The thing is, I have a love-hate relationship with reading. I've loved so many of the books I've read, and yet I don't associate reading with life's great pleasurable activities. It was something to do for school assignments; now it's something to pass the time while waiting for something else to happen. Sitting in a doctor's office: waiting for my appointment; riding on an airplane: waiting to get where I'm going. Or it's something to do because I should. It's so bizarre to admit this to you, whoever you are who, though not to admit it to myself, because it's not as if I'm just realizing this today for the first time. In high school I faked it: I never read the vast majority of the books that were assigned to us in English class.

Maybe I'm like Frannee Doolee, who loves books but hates reading.

At the end of Reading Like a Writer, Francine Prose has a long list of books she says should be read immediately. I don't have the list in front of me, but I know I've read very few of the books on her list. And I won't rush out to read any of them. I might pick up a few now and then, and what a joy it will be to read them. What am I missing out on by not reading them? I can't admit that, not even to you.