My Writing Challenge took a bit of a detour and I got lost in the rows and rows of shelves and shelves of books and books at the public library. I got overwhelmed, per usual. I got discouraged, per usual. I want to write, but why? There’s nothing new under the sun. There’s so much already written. Who will read it? I don’t have anything to say. I’ll write a book about myself! But nothing has happened in my life. So? But I’m not a famous person or person of interest. So?! I want to write because I want to, and that’s enough, because it has to be right now. I’m writing because I want to and I need a hobby. I’m no good at sports and it’s too cold to garden so here we are. I am going to write a book about myself. But first I should do a little research. I’ll read a few autobiographies, a couple biographies, some memoirs, just for guidelines, inspiration, motivation. Warm myself up to the idea of first-person, self-indulgent writing.
I read a lot of great books this year, some old, some older, some new, by and about a lot of great women and a couple great men. Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, Carrie Brownstein, Lucille Ball, Scaachi Koul, Michael Ian Black, James Brown, Jenny Lawson, probably a few others but I’m too lazy to find my list even though it’s on GoodReads and I’m sitting at a computer. I learned a bit, I cried a lot, sometimes related to the readings, sometimes completely unrelated. It’s difficult for me to break into fiction because there’s so much that’s true that I have yet to read and even more than I’ve yet to understand. I think maybe once I understand this world I’ll dabble into another universe or a different dimension, but until then I’ll keep reading about people who lived lives and did things in those lives, because it makes me feel a little bit better about the life I’m trying to live, and trying to write. Until I gather up all the words to say what I want to say, at least I’ll have plenty to read.