I read. I write. Sometimes poetry, sometimes prose. Sometimes reviews, sometimes articles. Sometimes nothing at all. 
When I’m at the library (or the grocery store, or the drugstore, or any other place that requires me to carry things), I always carry my books with my left hand. I’m right-handed, and have notoriously weak arms; my left arm is especially weak. Every little bit counts, right?
Frequently, when faced with a classic book, I choose the fluffy one instead.
I carry around my journal all the time, but rarely write in it. I need to get back in the habit.
When I come home from seeing a Harry Potter movie for the first time, I cry a little because the movies are such pale imitations of the books.
I can never remember whether to use ‘affect’ or ‘effect’ and have to say the sentence out loud before I can figure it out.
When I read my old journal entires, I am so embarrassed by my 13-year-old self that I wriggle around in embarrassment.
I’m pretty sure Louise Rennison’s Georgia Nicholson series are the funniest books I’ve ever read. At least, 1-3.
Many of my poetry drafts end with “NOOO IT’S ALL WRONGGGGGGGGGGGG”.
I hate Jane Austen.
I’ve never been able to get through a book of Leonard Cohen’s poetry. It always ends in me throwing the book at the wall.
I am still waiting for my Hogwarts letter.
