I would like to read less and then I would probably write more. It is a strange disease, this thirst for fiction, the hunger for pages to turn and print to devour. When writing I am transported to another place but my foothold is precarious and I often fall to earth, a failed angel who must try harder.
I tried NaNoWriMo and was defeated. I teach creative writing and love meeting all the hopeful writers who turn up every week hoping I will reveal the magic formula that will make all their writing spellbinding. When they find it I hope they tell me because I have been looking for years.
I do read a lot and my tastes are specific, never alter and will not bend. The writing must be good. Genre not important so long as the pact I enter into with the author to suspend disbelief is not betrayed. As soon as I detect the effort behind the writing or trip over discarded cliches and adverbs, I am no longer interested.