Historically I am not a prolific reader. I have my favorite books and authors but I never craved reading like some do. Part of that was because i was always drawn to a lot of things.
I’ve always felt this was my Achilles heel when it came to actually writing. How could, in fact, be much of a writer without being a reader? I tell myself. While it is true that often come away from even a small adventure with a new book with new ideas I’ve realized it’s not the crushing weakness I make it out to be.
Life can make you a better writer; simply living and experiencing existence gives you something to write about. But like everything else you just have to get started. Something I find harder to do now that I have two young boys but half my battle is just pushing though and not making excuses.
Ten minutes, if that’s all I got. Five of it reading someone else and five editing. Often that blooms into an hour later, ohmygoshibettergettobed like I just binge watched breaking bad season 4 but feeling a bit more energized.
I’m inching closer. It’s not going as fast as zosan did, but it is moving. When I’m done I’ll know it. The drawings are still being hatched in my head, the word still being pruned and trimmed.
I set a deadline to light a fire but I’m gathering that so long as I keep going I know I’ll get there.