Have I mentioned that I love books? The simply intoxicating nature of a whole world waiting at your fingertips, to take up at a moment’s notice, that transports you into the protagonist’s life whose fate is waiting in the balance for your return.
I put my book down and look up at the clock on the bedside table as it glares a harsh red back at me. My arms and hands tingle from holding up my head for so long and my eyes have been glazed over for the last half hour. If I go to sleep now, I’ll get under five hours of sleep before the alarm goes off. Just one more chapter, I promise myself. Of course, I know this is doubtful given the fact that the closer I get to the climax of the story, the less chance there is of putting it down.
For a long time, the books I piled up around me were mostly non-fiction because of an insatiable need to absorb new information, punctuated with a few fiction novels recommended by family and friends that allowed me to learn about different places or eras. Somewhere along the way, however, I found myself reading novels that were so well written that they sparked a latent desire in me to write.
In 1996, I bought a book called Writer’s Market. It lists thousands of publishers and agents, what they are looking for and how to submit a manuscript to them. The fact that I even own this book is rare for me—I rely heavily on the public library to feed my addiction. I knew I wanted to write but I let the spark die out. In the years since then, I permitted family obligations to envelop me and suppress the fear of failure that stood in my way. No trying meant no rejection. Nowadays, my skin isn’t any thicker but my need to write won’t take a back burner to my growing children who are quickly becoming independent. No excuses left.
After reading every book I could get my hands on about how to develop the craft of storywriting, I started to read all books with a critical eye. It’s like watching the DVD commentary of a movie that you can never watch with the same blitheness again—you know too much about what went on behind the scenes. I appreciate good books even more now because when the writing is exceptional, I stop paying attention to the bits and pieces that put it together.
Yes, I do spend an inordinate amount of time reading, to the detriment of socializing or a cleaner house, regretting any extra minutes carved out of the day that are wasted if I’m not reading. And yes, the rejections letters from publishers are adding up but being immersed in the writing life no longer feels optional.
Like a shark that needs to move in order to breathe, I can only live if I’m swimming in words.
