It just dawned on me, that my reading preferences seem to shift from fiction to non-fiction.

I used to be an avid reader in the past.  I have my favourite writers, that I still follow. Whenever I get to a bookstore, I check for new releases and invariably buy the latest addition to my collection of this or that particular author. Like Barnes, Haddon, Foer, Proulx, Boyle. To name a few. In earlier years they were also joined by Hornby. And, of course, Walker, Morrison, Angelou, Winterson, Parker. Plus almost everything circumstance ever recommended, as I have yet to come across one book she likes and I don’t.

Then there came the gap years. I stopped reading all together. I guess, it was me needing reading glasses. As my favourite place to read always was the bed. With glasses on, it became uncomfortable for me. So I stopped without even noticing. I think, blogging and computer screens took up the time and space, reading used up before.

But – at long last – this Christmas my sweetheart got me a Kindle reader. So I am reading again. And I notice, that I am into non-fiction, all of a sudden. Just read a book about mushrooms (very interesting, in fact sensational, with all new findings about a species, we considered plants up until now). Another one about metabolism. And one about bees.

As my holidays approach, I catch myself shopping for more non-fiction. Where will this lead to?  Am I not interested in stories about humanity, artfully stated on one particular sample (wich fiction mainly is) any more? Is my older self becoming more interesed in fact than phantasy? Do I need to worry? Just asking…