May 30, 2006

Four Cups Potatoes, Boiled And Cubed

Some people say, “a writer reads.” Others say, “a writer writes.” In order to keep myself from becoming too lop-sided and to assure my success in becoming a writer, I try to do both. However, even at an attempt to cover all the bases, I come across some pitfalls.

In following the “writer reads” theory, the pitfall is reading bad books. I’m trying to finish one now. I failed to follow the sub-theory of “never read books by authors who are still alive.” I’m reading a story by someone rumored to be so spell-binding with his frightening tales that one cannot put the works down. I find the book tedious and dreadful. He makes way too much use of his Thesaurus, frequently choosing such obscure words that they distract from the picture or thought he is trying to convey. Either the reader has to interrupt the story to look up these words in the dictionary, or the word and meaning of it remain completely wasted as the reader ignores the entire sentence completely. I refuse to acknowledge the possibility that I’m too ignorant to comprehend a mainstreamed author, so my criticism of him stands.

I’ve been reading this book since February, but experience week-long stretches of being unable to face the author’s trite details and bizarre choices of words that I don’t even open it. But I’m determined to finish it for two reasons: 1) Faux-Ma drives me nuts when she announces that she sometimes doesn’t finish books because she doesn’t like where the story is going. Out of principle, and out of respect for the author, I refuse to behave like a spoiled child who wants everything to have a happy ending, or at least demand the story turn out the way I think it should. 2) I’m using this book as a study in how not to write, both in technique and theory.

In following the “writer writes” theory, I write every day. This blog is a tool in my goal to write every day. However, any of you reading it will notice I’ve gone four days without so much as a dowdy-do to my loyal fans. I blame the holiday weekend. I was too busy hob-nobbing, roasting weenies, and swilling many hard lemonades to be coming up with blog entries, much less be bothered with any of my larger pieces of work.

So today, as a writer to my devoted readers, I raise my glass (still filled with hard lemonade) and toast the commencement of summer. I also pledge to all of you that I’ll finish that dreadful book by the end of the week and will continue to write every day, even if it’s only to copy my mother’s potato salad recipe.

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