I've been working hard to make some changes in my life (what else is new), to try to hunker down and finish a writing project, start sending stuff out to publishing houses, you know, the regular stuff. I also told myself I would stop blogging and writing while at work, but here I am, staring out at the beautiful sun beating down on me, my desk covered with paperwork and my supervisor harrassing me about unrealistic deadlines, typing away on Blogger without a care at all. Well, that's a bit of hyperbole; obviously I have some cares or else I wouldn't be trying to overhaul my entire lifestyle. But you get what I'm saying...
I'm currently reading (or almost finished with) Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir. This is a great book, especially for aspiring writers as myself who just want to get some inspiration and maybe a kick in the pants to get going. It's working...a bit. I've spent the last two days trying to stick to a pattern: read a physical book whenever I'm traveling or waiting for something; write for a minimum of two hours each day (or approx. 1000 words); knit and listen to an audiobook for 2-3 hours in the evening. It's worked out pretty well, actually. I find it somehow amusing that when I straighten up with some things in my life, other, less desirable chores start falling into place as well. Like taking out the trash and cleaning the litter box on a daily basis. Yesterday I spent about a half hour attempting to convince myself of the merits of moving the television/playstation out of the bedroom and into the living room. "There's a demon in my room!" I kept telling myself. It needs to be done; Stephen King doesn't approve, neither does any feng shui practitioner. The bottom line is that it's distracting, unhealthy and promotes the worst kind of laziness. But it's also so great to just lie back in bed, especially with a friend, and watch a movie. You don't get that kind of intimacy in the living room. But, alas, if I want to become a "serious writer" I need to actually have a dedicated place to write in my apartment. And really, what's more intimate than right by my bedroom window?
I almost felt last nght - after my two days of being really really good - that I just can't keep up this kind of reading pace. I was feeling a bit over-saturated with the written word. Yesterday alone I probably read for a combined 6 hours, give or take. Usually when I go through these kinds of binges (Les Mis comes to mind...shudder) I tend to take a break from reading for a long long time. Don't get me wrong, I love to read. But I think there comes a point when there are just too many books, and too many varied stories rolling around in my head. My headaches start encroaching on me when I read too much. I think my distate with reading might also have a lot to do with the kinds of books I decide to read at one time. A book lightly admonishing me about my laziness as a writer combined with an epic like Dune might not have been the best combination. I think epics need to be balanced with fluff. So I think my next few books need to be a bit more fluffy and not so serious.
We'll see. As I look over my inventory on GoodReads.com, I realize that my "currently reading" books are far from being labeled "fluff". Perhaps I'll start balancing these intense books with book reviews on BNS Review. If I accomplish another two books down in one month, along with another knitting project, I'll feel quite proud of myself indeed.
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