Last year I read over 150 books.

A few years ago, I read zero. That’s right. A big fat goose egg. Not one book, cover to cover, for twelve straight months, despite the fact that I am a person who’s whole identity revolves around books. Writing them. Talking about them. Trying to tell the world about them. Trying to get my kids to read them. You get the picture.

If you’ve ever googled “how to get out of a reading slump” or gone looking for short books to read, quick reads, or novellas you can finish in a night, I’m right there with you.

So here’s the real question, the one this whole post is actually about: why would a two-hour novella be the best thing you read all year, instead of some 900-page fantasy epic with its own family tree and a map behind the front cover? Isn’t the big one supposed to be the impressive one? The one that will give you the escape you’re looking for in a book?

Hang on. I’ll get there. First, my dirty little secret for climbing out of that reading-zero hole every single time: I stop trying to read a doorstop and pick up something short instead.