On Reading…

I have a confession: Last night, I finished the first book I have read to completion since early May of this year.  That is quite possibly the longest time in my entire life, no exaggeration, that I have gone without having done that.  I have been reading books since I was about three, and according to my Father and Mother, I never looked back after I finished my fist.

That’s not an usual story, I’m sure.  My non-reading friends (the poor dears) have often commented that I own “Too many books.”  Each time, that statement makes less sense than the last.  How on Earth can you own too many books?!  If anything, I don’t own nearly enough.  Have you seen Beauty and the Beast?  That library is a great place to start, as far as the correct number of books to own goes.  The look of joy on Belle’s face is basically the same one any reader would wear upon opening those doors. 

In May of this year however, my reading came to a rather dramatic halt.  I attended ComiCon Kansas City, and developed my obsession with becoming an author.  From the beginning of June all the way to last night, all of my free time has been consumed by the need to write.  Everyone in my entire family; my wife, my siblings, and my parents, have never seen me so consumed by a singular desire before.  I always tend to bounce around from project to project, but not with writing.  This is my 32nd straight post, closing in on seven straight weeks of writing or discussing writing.  Excepting my current weight loss, that’s the most consistent I have been on anything that wasn’t video games or reading.  Both of which I barely do anymore.

Video games isn’t so much of a loss, but reading?  Reading has been a constant source of comfort and inspiration for all of the stream of consciousness that is my current existence.  When I completed the book last night, I received another revelation with regards to the printed word.  Now that I am writing, books are an incredibly different experience.  Much like the first time I walked out of the hospital carrying my son, nothing about the world as a whole had changed, but everything was suddenly very different.  Suddenly, while I read the story, I was noticing aspects of it that I would have never even thought to consider.  The structure of the dialog, the pacing of exposition, how the plot develops in regards to the emotional and intellectual development of the characters.  How does this writer engage his readers? How did he or she keep enough air of mystery to want me to flip the next page?  Was there a good mix of world building mixed in with the story?  If so, how was it accomplished?  It was… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to properly describe it.  I have loved books for so long, but reading them in this new fashion made me think I’ve never truly read a book before. 

Last nights entire experience brings me to this post.  I have been ignoring my own personal reading, dismissing it because of my desire and my prudent habit of writing daily.  Yet this is a disservice to my current and future audience.  That singular book has given me more knowledge into appropriate writing than I would ever have given credence.   So as I move forward, I owe it to everyone involved in this journey to continue with my own personal reading.  Perhaps not at my normal “read four different books at once” style of days gone by, but in the truly digestive fashion with which my most recent prey was vanquished.  I sincerely feel that this is a practice which will give my writing better pacing, more clarity, and a deeper resonance with readers.  I would be sad that it took me so long to gain this knowledge, but wisdom is always welcome no matter the timing.  As the truism goes “Better late than never.”

Bookfully,
Justin