I am not writing much right now, other than work and poems on my other blog, obviously. But I am reading like only a grumpy old bookworm can. I am losing my temper when I am denied my reading.
I currently have a thriller, a collection of short stories, a fantasy, a scientific journal, a biography, an epic poem( …err, is it really that many? I checked, and it is!) and God knows what else. I seem to be back in the days before a graduation in English literature robbed me of the pleasure of reading. I fit in a lovely short story reading in the middle of writing this post too!
Reading books with different voices, locales, ideas and themes really helps….it kind of goes into a compost heap somewhere. When I am writing some of my own stuff, strange connections between diverse bits of info get wired together in my mind, and surprise me. Words of wisdom don’t hurt either.
I love being surprised by my own writing, it usually means I am doing well. For now, my writing seems to have taken a short hiatus. I am still content, reading some really convoluted short stories by Updike on the nature of love, seems to keep me from fretting over my temporary writer’s block!
Reading is a pleasure, and some people forget that. I did too, for some time during and after my English literature degree. If you find pleasure in non-fiction, then that is your haven….I am of the mind that one should read anything as long as one is happy.
It is good to branch out once in a while tho, and maybe if you try some good fiction you will find you like it?
Good for you.
I have a very hard time making my self break out and read beyond a few narrow veins of interest. My bookshelves tend to be long rows of dry, history books punctuated with bits of silliness.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy something different. It’s more that I can’t quite escape the event horizon created by the non-fiction, history telling, fact dense volumes that I seem to be unable to leave at the book store.
I think it’s time for me to do some reading out side the gravity well.