I have stuck by this somewhat obnoxious pretense that I didn't want to read books, but I wanted to write them. Other's stories didn't interest me because, I swore, that nothing was outside of the scope of my own imagination.
How did I get to such a conceited and exceedingly dull opinion?
This, in part, comes from my inability to read quickly and retain any sort of information. Reading puts me to sleep faster than driving... and that's saying something. It's like all that time falling asleep with books growing up finally trained my body in exactly the wrong way. Peh! (The driving thing is another story...)
After +Garrie McLaws continued to prod me with audio books, I told him repeatedly that, with my work, I just can't concentrate on two things at once. He sent me The Martian the push me over the edge. (I've been resisting this dialogue for months and, if you're seeing this, you likely saw that I loved The Martian.)
Who knew that creativity breeds creativity? We had a spare weekend night, if such a thing actually exists, so we got together and did a one-off adventure using Savage Worlds, a pen and paper role playing game system.
I was all over this and I loved the amount of creativity I could put into the environments, but the story was thin and ended with a very deus ex machina ending that made me resent not doing it myself.
"Next time, Gadget! Next time!"
Now I'm brimming with all sorts of creativity and I've been writing for fun for the past couple of days. Why isn't NANOWRIMO happening now?
Now, I'll be moving on to another audio book... because it isn't rehashed stories I could have already thought of. While the plots are sometimes similar, it's the minutia of dialogue and interaction that makes a book sing. The clever, the quaint, the ridiculous... it all blends into a wonderful dynamic that makes reading--or listening to--words a palatable melange of imagination and imagery.
Ah me, I love it so much!
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