This is long, rambling, discursive, and not terribly accurate. It attempts a first-pass answer to Gwenda Bond’s question: what kind of reader are you? Not as self-aware as I should be, but willing to attempt the answer.

I’m not sure I’m the sort of reader you should listen to. Before things went awry in early 1997, I was a good, loyal reader. I would only read books that I wanted to, that attracted me for some reason. I felt no compulsion to read the right book or make the virtuous choice. Comfort reading was fine with me. I would only read one book at a time, and I finished EVERY book I started, without ever checking the end first (I still don’t). I was the kind of reader that became totally immersed in a book, often walking down streets, bumping into signs while reading. I didn’t particularly think about what I read, I just consumed, voraciously. It was simple literary gluttony, and it was all about unconditional love.

In 1997 I became a book reviewer. Suddenly I had to think about what to say about what I read. I also, gradually, began to stop having to buy so many of the books I read. This changed things. I became opinionated, judgemental, non-committal and unfaithful. I realised I didn’t HAVE to finish a book. I often don’t. I also formulated my only rule of reading: if it’s over 400 pages long and says book one on the cover, don’t read it. I don’t stick to it religiously, but it’s a guide.

What else? I am a planner. I am always intending to read this or that fascinating piece of non-fiction; to read so many stories or books in a certain period of time; or even to read everything by someone or on a subject. I never do. I am a peripatetic reader. I have become a pretentious wannabe reader. I want to have read this or that. I feel like I should. I mostly don’t. I always check out what other people are reading or have in their homes. I am judgemental and feel free to disapprove, but not to say so.

I have developed terrible prejudices about books. I often don’t like a book simply because of the way it looks, who it’s written by, the paper stock, how I feel on the day, or how I imagine it may be given no particular evidence whatsoever. I struggle to overcome this, but often fail. There are books and writers that I love, and those I admire and want to love (but don’t really). I feel guilty about this, but cannot overcome it. For example, I love Terry Pratchett. He is so enjoyable to read, it’s just a delight (his Tiffany Aching books are magical). I like and admire Gene Wolfe. It’s a bit like eating bran or doing homework – I feel virtuous when I read him. I’m not sure it’s fun, but reading something like The Wizard Knight I feel like I’m being a good, responsible reader, reading ‘good’ books. Doing something that I should. I also get impatient when I read. If, for just about any reason, I find myself still reading a book after about a week, I’m likely to lose interest and move on. Sometimes I just lose interest, and stop. I no longer feel bad about this.

On the plus side, if I love a book or writer, I am both passionate and loyal. I fall deeply in love with the books that I do fall for. I want to tell EVERYone about them, hector people about the wonder of a book, to read everything the author has done, help make them incredibly successful. This doesn’t always work, but I want it to. For example, I just read Neil’s Anansi Boys. I love it. You will. I know you will. I also loved Geoff Ryman’s Air last year. It’s the best. Every time I walk past my copy I feel good. I want to go on and on about it, make sure other readers read it. I am an evangelist.

In 2003 something else happened to change my reading and the kind of reader that I am: I began to edit year’s best anthologies. Suddenly I had to read, or attempt to read, every piece of new short fiction I could lay my hands on. It’s a responsibility I take VERY seriously. I look for books and stories; get emailed stories, magazines, collections and anthologies. I’m still working out how it’s changed me as a reader, but it has meant I am even less committed to finish what I read, and more committed to overcoming my irrational prejudices, to be an optimist. I will give any story a page or maybe page and a half to impress me, and that’s it. If it fails in that time, I’ve moved on. But, I do start everything and, no matter how much I may have disliked something by an author before, I always try to start with the view that this story is the one that’s going to blow me away, that this one is the start of a fabulous love affair. When it works, when I read something like Chris Rowe’s “The Voluntary State” or Jeff VanderMeer’s “Three Days in a Border Town”, I’m sold, a convert. In fact, as a reader of short fiction, I’m a little like a badly dehydrated man swimming in the ocean. Everywhere you look is water, but nothing to drink. When there is something to drink, I’m voracious, passionate – evangelical, I guess. Oh, I also try to be fair, to not be tired or annoyed or whatever when I read for anthologies. I always want the writer to get the advantage (if that’s what it is) of the best possible reader I can be.

What else? I read a lot of magazines, but am a ridiculously inconsistent magazine reader. I read fiction and non-fiction magazines, but the only non-fiction magazines I read are music magazines. I don’t read any magazine in published order, no matter what it is. I rarely read all of any magazine, and I mostly read genre fiction magazines as printouts. Hmm. I also think the digest magazines are annoying to read. Don’t like ’em at all, but I’d read them if that was the only way to get the fiction.

I don’t know what else to say. What kind of reader am I? Lucky, but fickle. Irritable, but passionate. In love with the moment when the story hits, passionate about sharing it. A little guilty I’m not reading what I should, but in love with what I am reading.