Last weekend was my birthday. I fucked off all through it, and JJ and AJ helped. I didn’t write one word! Considering I’ve been writing daily for months now, that’s quite an admission. Yes, I did feel guilty once in a while, especially on Friday when I didn’t get out of bed until after noon. I lounged, Kindle in hand, and read read read.
I’d forgotten how very much I love reading. I got through almost three books by Sunday night (and I finished that last one over lunch at work today).
When I’m writing, I don’t read. I don’t have time for it, for one thing. I’m enveloped in creating my story and have no patience for someone else’s. I’m also a little afraid of having my style influenced by another writer, especially if they’re good.
One thing I’ve noticed: When I do read a good story, it lights a fire under me, making me want to write something better. I’m never jealous of other authors. They serve as cattle prods, urging me to get on with it already!
JJ was patient with me, indulging my laziness by making no demands other than going out with him Saturday night. We had a good time, and when we got home, I read another hour while he slept beside me.
Books. They’re wonderful.
If you don’t have any in your house, I’m liable to think you’re a cretin. How can anyone not read?