Hey, I'm old. 9:15 p.m. is late to me.
What if all writers and would-be writers pledged a certain page count of reading to be done every day? Not my hundred pages, necessarily, because other people have jobs and children and pets and friends, but fifty or twenty or ten. A good thing, I think.
Oh, and the book I was on about and finally finished was James Patterson's (via Mark Sullivan) Private Games. I think this book was written in a month and Mr. Sullivan did not enjoy the process. I think this book must have been written to sabotage Mr. Patterson's book mill— much as the plot involves the demolition of the modern Olympic games— out of contempt for what the games have become.
I refuse to believe this book was written this way on purpose.