I am an addict.
It is an interesting first line, don’t you think? However, it is at the core of who I am. I am an addict. It is not drugs, nor alcohol, or even food. I am addicted to good writing, whether that includes my own is a subject I still debate.
My most recent addiction is the numerous blogs on writersdigest.com. I find that in the past weeks I have been scouring 10 ways to never get published, 3 good things, 5 things, etc. You get the picture. Writer’s Digest is a plethora of writing tools and tips. I have engorged myself on the writing, the blogs, and the tricks of the trade as it were.
In the same vein, I cannot seem to stop reading. I know, I really should it is bad for my eyes. I cannot seem to ignore the fact that in reading a good book, or an article, that my mundane existence is transferred to the fantastical. I have delved into the Overlook Hotel and sat beside Jack Torrence as he talks to the dead, or I cry in horror as Captain Hunter is blown against the cliff of Mantaceros. Books are my friends, it is with this thought in mind that I realize I am addicted.
I am so addicted to reading that I have even begun to create my own imaginary friends to the point of penning them to paper and tearing apart their lives and existence for my own amusement. I have become Dr. Frankenstein piecing together the dead parts of my perception and creating a new reality in which to experience the world differently. As a fiction writer, as a fiction reader, I have a problem, one that I pray never ceases to give me the same excitement as the first time I picked up Night of the Living Dummy, or when I first read The Hobbit. Until next time dear friends.
Your friendly neighborhood author,