This was supposed to be for last week, and for that I apologize. Mrs. Dave and I took off for parts more barbaric. Barbaric enough we were in an area of spotty reception, and when I scheduled the post, it … decided to schedule the post for the end of the month. The very end of the month. I didn’t find out until Amanda gave me a Digital Look, and by then it was far, far too late. I don’t know if it was WordPress, or my Pad of Evil, but both of them delenda est. Again, my apologies. The rest of it still holds true, though it looks as though Mrs. Dave may well be around for the rest of the summer. Which is both weird, and welcome.
It’s been a week. I mean, it’s always been a week since my last post, hasn’t it? Seven days: that’s a week, right there. No denying it. Not worth trying. Anyway, there’s a non-zero chance Mrs. Dave will be busy for the rest of the summer on work business (as opposed to being unable to travel due to nonsensical house arrest) and so we whipped up the Wee Horde and have gone a’viking. We’ve headed south, in order to introduce the children to the trees. Not those trees: the other trees.
Sooooo … I have a question for you, gentle readers. Especially those of you who are also writers. Actually, only those of you who are also writers (I know we have a few readers who don’t write. I’m not judging, mind you. The more, the merrier, and there’s always room for one more. I just wonder — from time to time — what you’re doing here.) I came to writing as a reader. I picked Dragonrider off the Irreverend’s shelf of scifi at the tender age of seven, and never looked back. Eventually, I started telling stories. I’m not sure if I had the seemingly archetypal, “I can do that better” moment (though I’ve definitely had that a bunch recently) to catapult me into writing. As an aside, there’s a closely related, “huh, I wonder how you’d actually get there” moment, which I have also experienced.
However, I eventually had to decide what I was going to do when I grew up (still waiting on that one, just getting a jump on the doing part), and it really came down to writing. It’s a curse. It might also be a living. Still, I’ve found that as I’ve developed as a writer, my reading has slowed down. More than a little bit. As much as I still enjoy story, I don’t do much of it in worlds I don’t make up (or open a mind-sized portal into. Hard to say). I know this isn’t the case for all writers (lookin’ at you, Mum), but I feel like I barely qualify as a power reader, anymore. So, do you who write still read? Do you read lots? Whole bunches? Enormous, tottering stacks of TBR balanced precariously on the bedside table, threatening to crash and smother you in your sleep?
I find I have a reluctance to invest emotionally in characters and worlds that aren’t mine. This is especially true when I haven’t written much, or enough lately. Of course, the other side is I just don’t have a lot of time and energy, and I’ve found reading takes a lot more of that than it used to, and doesn’t seem to give much back. I find, after all the work about the house, and keeping the littles fed and healthy, there just isn’t anything left in the tank. I plan to continue following long-running series, but picking up new ones just feels exhausting. Anybody encountered this?