Or that’s my theory, anyway. I’ve been reading a huge amount lately, and I can’t even bring myself to write blog posts. My poor brain is overwhelmed just trying to process all the information that I’ve dumped into it this week.
I am going to cut back on my reading a bit, just to try to get the pump going again. Reading some of the books has painfully impressed me with things I don’t want to do– telling the entire story, not showing (On the Road), using huge ten-dollar words that just baffle and overwhelm (Under the Volcano), and not taking risks (Cold Days.) In a way, even the books that I hate really do have things to teach me, whether they’re teaching me things about life, humanity, or literature. Reading is essential to writing, or at least to writing well.
I’ve got several projects that I’d like to work on, but it’s going to take a few days to get all the jumble of styles out of my head. One project is a semi-autobiographical road novel . . . boy, I’d love to do some research for that. I just need a few thousand dollars in cash, that’s all! (I am not Kerouac, I’m not going to sleep in ditches and steal food to make it across the country.) I’d love to make another trip cross-country, though. I love travelling, and haven’t had nearly enough opportunities to do it.
In the meantime, I might finish a couple of books . . . maybe. One is a sort of mini-biography of the saints, so it shouldn’t affect my writing too much, and I’d also like to finish “The Old Wives Tale” since it’s got such a simple and elegant style . . . I wouldn’t mind copying that. When the style ceases to BE a style and just gets out of the way of the reading . . . that’s what I like.