It’s been sixteen days since my last post. Feels like a million. Feels like I forgot how to blog. I can’t say exactly why I didn’t post anything the past two and a half weeks. I guess I didn’t have anything to say. I’ve been writing, that’s one reason (doing that boogey-down thing where you make a distinction between blogging and writing). I’ve also been reading again. I miss reading. I’ve enjoyed it so much, in fact, that I thought about changing the name of my blog to Rob On Reading.
Not really. I was just checking to see if you were still awake. But I had forgotten what an intricate and necessary part reading plays in my own writing. It really is the fuel that keeps my muse running. I’ve kind of always been that way but I am one of these people who—even though it’s an absolute maxim in their life or process—forgets. Or maybe I just think I can get away with it. I’m a slow reader, so reading (as much as I enjoy it) really, really cuts into my schedule. I see these reviewers on Amazon who review two or three books a day and I think how much can they be getting out of a book when reading twenty of them a week?
I used to never want a book to end. Well, a good book, that is. But geeze, with all the five-star books out there we should be in literary heaven, shouldn’t we? Maybe that’s a good reason to saw through twenty books in a week. Where’s Evelyn Wood when you need her? Speed-read those bad boys!
But seriously, I do enjoy taking my time with the language inside a book—the words. I read a blog recently that more or less claimed quality didn’t matter. That anyone who thought they could distinguish between “good” books and “bad” books didn’t know what the hell they were talking about. Seems books are immune to all sorts of things the rest of us have long taken for granted.
Good pizza, bad pizza.
Good school, bad school, GREAT school.
Good car, lemon.
Good football team, shitty football team. (That one’s kind of hard to hide with the whole “scoreboard” thing and all).
And of course, everyone has a book in them. Everyone can and should write a book. (I actually caught two of my Aussies co-writing a book together the other night—couldn’t find them, went downstairs, all the way to the darkened basement, and there they were in the glow of my old laptop, cranking out a book about dog zombies.)
I don’t know how you are but I read mostly within my genre, or at least authors who write in a style to which I aspire (and I DO believe there are great books and terrible ones, blessed, poetic writers and those who couldn’t pen their way out of a paper sack if it was sopping wet and full of adverbs). That’s the great thing about a free society, though: we each get to choose what twists our nipples, tickles our patooties, and sizzles our bacon.
I’ve also been trying to set aside some time to read some blogs I’ve fallen behind on over the months. I don’t know how many of you are tuned in to Sev Winters‘ Homeless Gazillionaire blog but the man is unpacking his life right before his readers’ eyes and he’s not pulling any punches. I’ve know Sev for a while and I always saw him as a bit misunderstood (my word, not his). I now think he’s definitely misunderstood—by himself. As are we all, if we are brave enough to admit it. He’s decided it’s high time to unpack the bags that have accumulated over time. It’s pretty impressive, the candor with which he is ripping them open, sorting through the piles of good and bad, pleasant and shitty, and putting the pieces together in some kind of coherent manner that assists in defining who he’s become over half a lifetime.
Good reading.
Which is kind of where I started this thing. Well, actually I started talking about no blogging, but we got around to the reading part. Speaking of which, I was honored recently by two writers I respect immensely (Caleb Pirtle and Stephen Woodfin) and asked to post a serial novel, one chapter a week, on their Venture Galleries website.
The great thing is, until each Thursday night, right before my deadline, I have no fucking idea what I am going to write. I don’t edit it, other than to correct any typos I happen to see, so it really is Writing Without A Net.
(To be honest, it kind of scares the crap out of me, but we’ll see where it goes—I’m writing it under a pen name, so I’ll just blame him if it sucks). You can read it by clicking on the cover:
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The blank page is dead (after two and a half weeks)…long live the blank page.
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Tuesday Calendar Image credit: madmaxer / 123RF Stock Photo
Speed-Reading Image credit: goodshotalan / 123RF Stock Photo
Quality Image credit: johnkwan / 123RF Stock Photo
Oh, you’re kidding me!! I’ve been reading the serial and had no idea you were using a pen name, though I did wonder why you were posting someone else’s book. Duh!! Didn’t see that coming at all! Well, it’s intriguing, all right. A little eerie. Gonna be a chiller? Good on ye, kiddo! Double trouble rides again!
Honestly, I wasn’t kidding when I said this is writing without a net. It is. But yes, definitely a different style and genre. Hopefully creepy. A chiller, yes. Horrific? Remains to be seen… 😉
Rob,
Thanks for the mention about Venture Galleries and the serial thing. I am enjoying The Woods. Serials are definitely a thrill to read and to write. I told Caleb it was like working without a net, and he just grinned. Apparently he is under the impression that I live my life like that anyway, so what else is new?
Keep the hammer down.
SW
Keep the hammer down indeed! Well I really appreciate you guys respecting me enough to ask me to participate. Net or no net. 🙂
One question! When will the dog zombie book be available? That gave me a chuckle.
They won’t tell me. Aussies are inherently secretive. If I can get the Chihuahua to infiltrate the project, however…
It has been a long time between blogs. I miss your rants and raves. They inspire us all. Of course, I’m one of the fortunate ones. I get to read the serial chapters you send of The Woods, which are running on Venture Galleries. My wife said, “Tell me about the book that R. S. Guthrie is sending in.” “It’s a disturbing book,” I said. “I don’t think I’ll read it,” she said. “Okay,” I said. She read it, looked up, and said, “This is as good as anything I’ve ever read.” I smiled and kept on typing.
Do I rant and rave? I swear I’m not writing from a looney bin or asylum or anyplace like that. 😉
Tell your wife I really appreciate the compliment. And to please call me Rob. Or Kurt. Now I’m confused… 🙂
Rob, I’m going to take a moment to compliment you on slowing things down enough to take a step back and do some reading.
Reading is crucial.
You can’t write a song without having heard a lot of music, right?
In my humble opinion, reading is part of writing, kinda like your brain is a part of your body. Fairly important, right? Probably couldn’t do much besides watch tv if it weren’t in there.
So, make reading part of your writing time. If you write 2 hours per day, spend the first 30 minutes reading. Set a timer if you must. Then go on to your own material. Re-read/edit yesterday’s material in order to get yourself back in your own voice. Then let ‘er rip.
And reading a couple books per day is ridiculous. Like you said, you’re not going to be getting much out of it. You don’t go to a five-star restaurant, order a $50 plate, and then devour it in three bites. No, you enjoy it.
So enjoy the book. There is no such thing as slow or fast reading. Ask someone who alleges to read fast how much they recall and comprehended. A lot of people get off on having read a book, rather than the actual reading of it. As if it’s some badge of honor they wear, declaring for all to see that they are intelligent and learned and dey done read lots a dem good books, ayuh!
I have no idea how fast I read. I’ve always felt I read a bit slowly, but thoroughly. I’ve been told by others that I read quickly. So who knows. And who cares.
When I read, I am doing two things:
1)Enjoying
2)Studying
I can’t help it. You think a magician watches another magician’s act and isn’t thinking about how the guy pulled an oak tree out of a midget’s butt? On one level, he simply enjoyed the trick; but on another level, he’s already thinking about how he can pull a FLAMING oak tree out of an ALBINO midget’s butt.
Similarly, when I read, I’m enjoying the story at the same time that I’m seeing things which are incorrect as well as things which are done well. For both are equally informative.
So, read however you read. You wouldn’t want a person to speed read through BLOOD LAND in two hours and say, “Well, that was fun. Next!”
I have also been doing that whole strange elusive actually-reading-books thing. Part of it is that I’m subletting an apartment belonging to a gentleman who has excellent taste in books and a truly enormous bookshelf, so all of a sudden all these books I’ve been meaning to read for years are right there in front of me. I think I stopped devouring fiction when I got to college and wasn’t insanely bored all the time, but now I’m reading several novels at once again and I forgot how wonderful it is, how much more energetic & creative I feel, how much more linguistically alive. It’s a delight.
As for the “intricate and necessary part reading plays in my own writing,” I was never much of a writer before, oh, last year. So I’m discovering that for the first time. God, it’s glorious! Maybe it’s the autumnal season upon us? Everybody feeling the need to curl up with a cup of something and a beloved book?