Why does it seem like it is so much more acceptable to flip on a tv or screen of some sort and passively allow someone else to share their vision of a story than it is to open up a book, read the words and create our own vision?
Today is an interesting day. Interesting because, unlike most days, I seem to have a bit of time on my hands. There are no extra hours being granted for work. Other than my usual daily chauffeuring, I have nowhere to go. There’s a chilly dampness in the air today. It’s gray and sort of sad and lazy out. It’s raining the sort of rain that just kind of comes and goes, misting everything but refusing to just let go and pour out full force. Not much unlike the struggle to fight back one’s own tears only to have a stray
It’s been another long day here. I barely got my hours in for my regular work, let alone managed to do much related to my writing. Spent four hours basically sitting in the car (as a favor for family) and between that and the odd ways in which I contort myself every other day of the week in order to get things done, it’s definitely taking a toll on me. I’m in so much pain — the part of my back sort of between my shoulder blades and down the center — that I had to call upon one of
It’s come to my attention, sadly, that I simply do not read enough. I read all day — just about every day, it seems — but it’s always online stuff: short articles, snippets of things, research information, blogs, etc. I can’t remember the last time I’ve picked up and read an actual, tangible book. You know, the kind where you have to turn the pages manually? They usually smell a little musty and are made up of actual paper and ink and binding glue… When I first moved here I was excited to finally live somewhere with an accessible physical