I’ve always been a rabid reader. One of my fondest memories is the anticipation of every other Tuesday when our city’s Bookmobile would park up the street so I could pick out all the books I could carry. What did I read?  Everything. Usually things not age appropriate. I devoured anything with words: The good, the bad, and the sometimes really bad. When I opened to page one, I felt compelled to read all the way through to the end, even if it was a struggle. It was a book, after all, the story had to be in there someplace, and it was up to me to find it. It wasn’t until I started to BUY books, that I became a more discerning reader.  I remember picking up a highly hyped historical (back when they were 600 pages!) and slogging through it . . . waiting for it to get good. Just one more chapter.  Maybe the next one. I read the last page and set it down in amazement. It never got any better. I felt cheated, not just out of my money, but more importantly, out of my time.  I’d put real effort into that book with no…