Greetings, readers. Well, I finally did it. This past Sunday evening I confessed to my dear Godmother that I am a non-reader. I can read, but I’ll chose almost any form of entertainment over reading. This poses a question. Do I, a writer, have the right to expect other people to read my work?
I suppose I do, but as I told my Godmother, “I’m probably not going to write the 300 page novel, and I’m sure as hell not going to write the 900 page doorstop.” If a 150 page novella is in me, I’ll have to flex the writing muscles … as Rebecca likes to say.
I’ve often asked myself, why don’t I like to read? The answer is that my attention span is short. After 20 or 30 minutes I begin to read the same line 4 or 5 times. This is extremely frustrating. When I would have to read textbooks for college, I would have to fight my way through them and I retained very little, making test day a bitch.
Have I always been a non-reader? According to my dear departed mother, the answer is no. She explained to me one time that I used to have a small bag to carry my books with me everywhere I went, and would throw a crying hissy fit if I couldn’t bring my books with me. I wonder what happened to that avid child reader?
Back in my mid-twenties or so, I tried my hand at my first play. It didn’t work, but it did show me that I liked writing dialog much better than prose. I guess I’ve never been a good describer of things. A good writer has to paint the picture for his or her reader.
I would like to think, as I close today’s blog entry, that I’ve got several more books in me; not only to write but to read. War and Peace will not be my first choice, but neither will be See Jane Run. As “Norman Thayer, Jr” from On Golden Pond said fondly, “Maybe I’ll start with something from Reader’s Digest Abridged.” Until next time, take care, have a good day, and happy reading.