Thoughts before a storm
Ah, it appears that champion of the ignorant in the Whitehouse is going into a spectacular tail spin, looking for something else of value into which he can kamikaze, no doubt; summon the braindead faithful to do likewise. There must still be something he hasn't rendered chaotic.
The weather forecast is dire, so bad, in fact, the town manager has called everyone with his personal prediction (snow about twice as deep as the Weather Channel predicticts.)
My turn to cook tonight, so hopefully the power will last until the dishes are washed.
A perfect moment to reflect--or perhaps to kill a few minutes before donning the chef's hat and apron. What better way than my first blog post on GoodReads?
So in keeping with the professed common interest here, a few comments on reading, and by way of extension, writing.
I read/have-read books for three reasons: to find distant places in which I can immerse myself utterly for a while; to familiarize myself with something that has caught my interest; but mostly to inspire myself to write.
Once upon a time I churned out a novel a year and a clutch of short stories for a decade or so, mostly while I spent the bulk of my waking hours earning a living in the construction industry. But as I charge through the eighth decade of my life, I find fewer and fewer things to inspire me. The sum total of my creative writing output over the past seven years is seven short stories. For every year I wrote two, there was a year in which I wrote none.
What saddens me most is the lack of that frequent paradoxical "high" the experience brings; finding myself by losing myself in the work.
Happily, I am still able to lose myself in a good book; occasionally lose myself in writing.
To those who, like me, are driven to write: I salute you all: masters, journeymen and fools alike. To those who are driven to read, I salute you as well--hoping the experience enlarges (rather that shrinks, or merely confirms) your life experiences.
And now, I have a date with a steak, some baked potatoes, caramelized onions and a salad bowl.
The weather forecast is dire, so bad, in fact, the town manager has called everyone with his personal prediction (snow about twice as deep as the Weather Channel predicticts.)
My turn to cook tonight, so hopefully the power will last until the dishes are washed.
A perfect moment to reflect--or perhaps to kill a few minutes before donning the chef's hat and apron. What better way than my first blog post on GoodReads?
So in keeping with the professed common interest here, a few comments on reading, and by way of extension, writing.
I read/have-read books for three reasons: to find distant places in which I can immerse myself utterly for a while; to familiarize myself with something that has caught my interest; but mostly to inspire myself to write.
Once upon a time I churned out a novel a year and a clutch of short stories for a decade or so, mostly while I spent the bulk of my waking hours earning a living in the construction industry. But as I charge through the eighth decade of my life, I find fewer and fewer things to inspire me. The sum total of my creative writing output over the past seven years is seven short stories. For every year I wrote two, there was a year in which I wrote none.
What saddens me most is the lack of that frequent paradoxical "high" the experience brings; finding myself by losing myself in the work.
Happily, I am still able to lose myself in a good book; occasionally lose myself in writing.
To those who, like me, are driven to write: I salute you all: masters, journeymen and fools alike. To those who are driven to read, I salute you as well--hoping the experience enlarges (rather that shrinks, or merely confirms) your life experiences.
And now, I have a date with a steak, some baked potatoes, caramelized onions and a salad bowl.
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