I once had to read One Day in the Life of Ivan Denesovitch (probably spelled wrong! it was about 40 years ago) one bright sunday, and write a paper on it that evening, to be turned in in the morning... Ahhh, the joys of youth! But I digress.

I had a class where I had to write an essay about a different Charles Dickens book every week—which was a bit of a struggle, since some of those books are like bricks. I would kind speed read without taking notes or anything, and then when I had to actually write something I’d revisit whatever stuck out in my (vague)…