There was a time in my life when I read purely for pleasure. Before then, I read pretty much for pain, or more accurately, I read and it caused me pain. Like reading Thoreau’s Walden and Stephen Crane’s The Red Badge of Courage for English class – now there was torture. But thankfully, there was Stephen King and Stephen R. Donaldson and Stephen Coonts and even some authors not named Stephen, and I was in bliss. These were my lazy high school years. I remember reading Misery in a single day, from nine in the morning until nine at night, and I had no other desire than to feel every word on the page. It was pure hedonism.