I’ve taken the last couple weeks of free time for myself, trying to enjoy the calm before the typhoon that is looming around the corner. A typhoon including academia, a possible move, and the impending end of our fiscal year at work. Instead of engaging in activities that a more normal person might, I relished every second of this time by immersing myself in reading FOR FUN. Can you believe the excitement around this place? Do I need to remind you yet again of how annoyingly bizarre and unexciting I am? I enjoy reading, I crave the time to do so, and very infrequently find it. So, when I happened upon this quieter time (quieter meaning the presence of only a dull roar), I read and read and read and read and read. So much so, that I think Craig contemplated just how to go about placing my face on a milk carton while wondering who this imposter was that had a neck with a paperback book attached to it.
Side note, I would highly recommend this one and should proclaim my disappointment a bit with this one.
The problem reading presents for me is that somehow it renders me utterly useless at writing. While on a normal day, my brain changes directions faster than Jon Gosselin changes girlfriends, reading makes me altogether ineffectual. I get so absorbed in the story, the era, the characters, and the setting, that it steals away any creative energy I have. So, when I sit down at my computer to write, I find myself an unfamiliar soul, writing in sync with the author I am currently reading. It is surreal and leaves me wondering who exactly the person that just wrote that was. Do you think they make a medication that could take care of this problem?
There is my excuse for being a lazy blogger.
Fortunately (unfortunately?) for you, the reading has ceased and maybe my wayward writing ability will make its way back home.
A Tour of My Parents’ House
2 days ago