Reading? What's that?

A lot of young writers read a lot.

And the simple truth is - I don't.

I used to read though.  I used to read all the time.  Virtually all the time, that is.  I read the first three books of the Inheritance Cycle, I read the Lord of the Rings, I read all of the Chronicles of Narnia books.  And then I reread them.

I used to read a lot.  But I don't anymore.  Last year I might have read ten books - and I was shooting for twenty-five.  This year (or really last - still can hardly comprehend it's 2014), I've read five at most.  Let's see if I can count them on one hand.

Prisoner of Zenda
The Cross and the Switchblade
Beyond the Cross and the Switchblade

One hand.  And that's with two fingers missing.  Am I just that lazy?  And next year I have to read twenty-five books for school.  Well, that's it for me.  I'm doomed (to borrow the colloquialism).

But why?

For one thing, my environment changed in the past three years like it never had before.

I discovered the internet. O_O (And in the process the key to the future generation of socializing - emoticons)  Which has turned out not only to be the bane of my reading time, but also my writing time, my social time, my school time, and my existence in general.  But not my thinking time, which of course is always the prime of life as a teen still trying to figure out whether the Affordable Care Act is a token of the Devil or a gift from God (after months a year of contemplation, I've discovered it's somewhere in the middle, leaning towards the former - it's a pie in the face from our government).

But this is a bit sidetracked.  Three years ago I lived in a much different environment.  One in which there was a couch.  A bookshelf.  And a fireplace.  And a library about twenty minutes away.

At the time though you must understand - this was not a cool place (actually, considering we had neither gas nor electric heat and only a fireplace, it was a cool place).  At the time I hated libraries - and yet I loved reading books.

Sound confusing?

Don't look at me.  I was the victim to that delusional state of mind.

So I read on that little couch.  And I read.  And I read.  And then we moved and I stopped reading.  About that time was when I starting writing, however.

So obviously there's a big shift in ideals during this time of my life.  I went from feeding of others' work - a consumer - to (trying) to create - a producer.

I went from living a normal life, to wanting to help others live normal lives (through books - though I was at the time still quite disillusioned, as I believed writing was for the sake of it.  As if!)

And so I can firmly come to this conclusion.  My shifting ideals actually affected my behavior subconsciously.  I don't, however, believe that I should remain this way.  Therefore, maybe 2014 will be a better year for me in terms of reading.  Maybe I shall return to those frolicking meadows (the ones I believed I was in on the stormy days of childhood).  And once again return to being that fat happy consumer.

Although I don't think choosing Alice in Wonderland was quite the book to start off with in my return to preexistence . . .

Adios and vaya con dios
Robert