I grew up in Eugene, Oregon. Home of the Slug Queen. And the Oregon Country Fair. Where clothing is always optional.
One of my favorite past times was walking to and from the bookmobile every other Saturday. I think they had a twenty-book limit, which I always maxed out. They parked in the Mayfair market parking lot, which provided me with my other bi-weekly bliss: A bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos. Dorito means “little golden” in Spanish. Now you can check that off of your list.
So instead of spending my Saturdays outside playing like normal children, I could be found with my head in yet another book and my hand moving from the bag of Doritos to my mouth. Boy my bedroom must have stunk.
My point, fair reader, is that in the noble pursuit that is the writing life, one at times may forget the original reason why we embarked on such a mad journey to begin with: Love. Love of words. Words in books.
For the last couple of years I've been giving myself impossible reading goals. And happily falling short in the attempt to reach them. This year's goal: 60 books. Am I going to get there? Not likely. The point is not so much to read sixty books this year, as it is to continually feast on the virtually limitless bounty available. So many books, so very little time. And there are always such delightful discoveries along the way.
For example, I’m recently read Lloyd Alexander’s The Chronicles of Prydain series. Amazing. The five books were written over the course of five years. Starting in 1964! How did I miss these books?
I think every writer needs an occasional reminder about why they are slogging away at the keyboard. A friendly book is as good a poke in the ribs as anything I can think of.
So go find a book (or sixty!) to get lost in. Anyone got some good recommendations? My list has lots of blank spaces to fill...