So I've been thinking about books, those musty, wonderfully bound things (& the scentless digital ones) and trying to decide what to do with them.
For those of you who follow Goodreads, we make up a challenge each year about how many books we will read in one year. One year I read over 80. Yep, that's right, 80 novels of varying lengths, but 80 nonetheless. Most of them were digital. It was the year I published Silver Hollow and I was in love with the independent novel movement, not just because of the fabulous prices. I loved the originality of the stories I read, and had the urge to want to help the authors as much as I hoped to help myself one day.
But after that, the number of books I've read per year has dwindled. I had a somewhat decent excuse in 2013, because I self-published three novels that year. And I felt like writing was more important than reading. The proof showed its ugly head when I barely read 30 this last year, and barely published one short story. It's made me reassess my value of books and literature in general. Writing had for a time taken precedence over reading, but what excuse do I have when I have little work ethic to show for it?
That was such a stupid assumption! Because novels feed into writing, they give you fresh life. All the various voices help to teach you different methods and styles. Kind of like the old saying, "you are who you hang out with," the same applies to the books you read. You write what you read. Every time I read classic literature, I tend to write with more of an Austen flair. If I'm stuck on some contemporary Indie romances, dialogue centric it is. The proof really is in the text.
This new year, I want to change my tune to the way it was. I want to read as many books as I can get my hands on so I can find the inspiration to write. I may not start off with 80 books in my Goodreads challenge, but I'll give it my best shot. And who knows, maybe this year, we can make it to the bit 9-0!