Seat of Our Pants

It’s one thing to read a good book when you’re reading for the simple pleasure of reading. It’s a very different thing to read a good book while writing your own book. I just started reading Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children and, well, you can count this girl’s mind as blown (and in turn, my creative self wanting to run for the hills).

I recently heard of a painter who, when seeing his mentor’s work for the first time, broke into tears feeling he’d never match his mentor’s artistry. That’s the way I feel when I read a good book. And for the record, let me explain what I mean with a good book. I’m not talking about page-turning, mess-with-my-emotions Dan Brown style works. No. Not those.

It’s Murakami and Dickens that do it for me. Books that make you think. Books that make you feel that you’ve both lost something (ignorance) and gained something (a damn fine adventure) at the same time.

So, I’m writing this post as a way to seal a deal with myself. I’ve told myself for years that I’ll make good on the ideas wracking my brain. I’ve yet to do that.

It’s reckoning time. So, even if the novel sucks – it will be written. And in the end, if it’s not novel writing, it’ll be something else. There’s a lot brewing inside this head.

Stay tuned…

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