(So I wrote this post months ago. And then I decided it was sad and embarrassing and I didn't want to post it until I could say it wasn't true anymore. It isn't. And this is the part where I'd point you to my Goodreads page to show you all the books I've read, but I somehow managed to mass delete a lot of my ratings? (Because I'm so smart and good at computers.) So while I go and try to remember everything I've read for the last few months, enjoy this post that is now full of lies!)
(Oh, and if you were wondering, I was successful at my "write a page every time I'm on the computer in November" challenge. And I think the pressure gave me some interesting plot twists. Congratulations to everyone who did actual Nanowrimo.)
I don't read.
I'm not proud of this. In fact I'm a little ashamed to admit it. But I very rarely read fiction.
I used to. I started reading as soon as I could hold a book, and by the age of six or seven I was correcting adults on their pronunciation of words that were bigger than I was. By the time I was 13, I'd read almost every book in my age range the library had to offer, and after that I read some funny murder mysteries with my mom and competed to see who could solve it first.
I don't know what changed. A lot of things I guess. I got busier, my ADHD got worse, depression kicked in. All I know is all of a sudden I'm 26 and I can't remember the last time I held an actual book. I've read a little Shakespeare and HG Wells online, a paragraph here or there between emails, but I don't lose hours engrossed in pages like I used to.
I don't even go inside the library anymore. I use their website to borrow movies, and I stay in the van while my mom goes in. And I feel bad for that. Shouldn't a writer read?
One day a few months ago, when the library was closed, I went downstairs with my mom to help her find a book in our building's community room. I found a bright yellow book with a cat on the cover. It looked like a mystery with cats, one of my mother's favorite genres, and I pointed it out. She read the inside cover, said, "Talking space cats. You want it?"
I did want it. It was Catacombs, by Anne McCaffrey and Elizabeth Ann Scarborough. I think I read it (and Catalyst, the other book in the series) in about a day. And then I didn't read again until this week.
I'm trying to find time for it, because I love it so much, but I think the sheer volume of possible books intimidates me. I don't know which ones to read, so I don't read any. I'm starting with the winners and nominees of the Hugo award. It's a limited amount, I know they're my favorite genres, and... and a writer ought to read, shouldn't they?