What I find quite annoying about fiction, no matter what genre, is that characters don’t read. They just don’t. There are no quiet long-weekends spent by sipping wine with few books to read. They don’t even think that much, they just act. What is particularly puzzling in that scheme is the notion of a writer stuck for weeks in front of her laptop, sipping latte and typing, and regretfully staying away from her social life, and the said writer is thinking of a bunch of readers, who are like her, and will enjoy long afternoons of bright light and crispy air, and tea, and turning pages. So why write about people who don’t read?