I Used to be a Reader

If you’re one of my three faithful followers not related to me, you’ve seen me whine once or twenty times about not writing. Without details, I’m on the outside looking in on the writer I used to be, thanks to the Great Wall of China of mental blocks. The cause refused to solved because, I suppose, self analysis is a waste when the patient refuses to sit still and be diagnosed.

That there is called “foreshadowing.”

The lightbulb exploded above my head after my third or fourth attempt at plain ol’ reading fiction, and seeing I’ve neither the patience or focus to progress past the one-third point. If you knew me growing up, you’d wonder if that were true because I was always reading. Always. A dozen real writers helped me escape the shitty first twenty years of life. As is normal, that ability to focus on the book at hand was chipped away over time like a sharp rock in a river, and my ability to concentrate took a real hit over the last four years because ugh. You know what I mean.

To write, I must read. And I could do neither for a long time.

Yesterday, I randomly picked up a book at plot development as a kind of a last gasp and, waddyaknow, the writing neurons started firing. My mummified Great American Novel covered by eons of Egyptian dust in the back of my brain made a noise, a real noise!

Gasp.

Could my book be alive?

It could be.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Writing is placing a ton of feathers, one at a time, on a windswept plain during a pause in the weather: a lot can go wrong without warning. That said, I have ideas for a new/old book that may get done. Either way, the rock in my gut from not writing has shrunk a little, and that’s a great feeling all by itself.

I’m not saying I’m back, but I’m not gone anymore, either.

One day at a time.

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