I feel like I’m giving myself permission to write about All The Things in a way that is neither deep nor lyrical. Because I am, lately, a creativity camel. My urgent need to write and world-build and daydream is by necessity put off by diapers that need changing (and washing and drying and folding), block towers that need collapsing, toothless smiles soaked up and baby giggles bottled. When I get my figurative drink on, however, I drink deep.
So I am excited about reading and writing when I can, and presently, this. I’ve made a concerted effort to read women in the science fiction and fantasy genre (and all books ever, really), and I love a good reading challenge. I’ve had Cherie Priest’s Boneshaker on loan from the library and am anxious to dig in. I only wish I hadn’t just finished Julianna Baggott’s Pure, because, my goodness, what a note to begin on that gritty gem would’ve been.
Reading is such a cornerstone to writing that even when I’m reduced to a blubbering, unproductive mess by the spectacular imaginations of others, I can’t regret the hours lost in another world. Because lost isn’t even really the right word.
It’s more like lust.
A good book is about what can’t be had, only dreamed. And I can’t hope to write one if I haven’t read a whole hell of a lot of them.