In The Guardian (UK), Bibi van der Zee writes about being addicted to reading:
Ah yes, stress. By Thursday, my early glow has worn off after a long day coping with winter, an ill parent, one particularly grumpy son, and the general detritus of life. I am incredibly tetchy and snappy; more than usual? Impossible to know (everyone’s too scared to tell me), but Friday is the same and even a little worse and I can’t find any way to relax, to switch off and get away from the things that you list in your head at 11.30pm at night. After school on Friday evening, when the boys have had tea and watched a bit of TV, they racket off downstairs for a game of hide and seek, and I slump down on to the sofa for a half hour that would usually involve a novel, a cuppa, and maybe a biscuit. Instead, after staring at the wall for a bit, I fetch my laptop and do some more work. Life feels deeply, wintrily joyless. It feels wall-to-wall grey.
Books, I realise, have been one of my longest, truest friends. When I’m anxious, sad, angry, in need of comfort, a book is often the first place I will go: I even have books that I regularly re-read when I’m feeling particularly awful (can I just recommend the Bitch in the House if you’ve been a particularly bad mother that day?). And now I have just cast them aside, as if all my flaws are their fault, and not the other way round.