In which I try (in second person)to describe what reading is to me (yet again).

You know that thing that happens when you feel like there is a engine behind your prose and it runs runs runs for days. The engine seems to run when you do anything. You pick up a book to read and you are driven all the way to the end(or sometimes you only want to read beginnings but you read the beginning of all 20 books you have home from the library). Your eyes eat up the words and they seem to inform something necessary and deeply connected to your prose. It's thrilling. And then one day the engine dies, I mean, it is just completely gone but the only reason you know is because you picked up a book. You held it there in front of your face and you realize you are totally stalled. The words are bumpy. They are in the way instead of pulling you forward. It seems so cruel that that you have to find out like this. You were excited to pick up the book. The writing had gotten hard today and a book sounded like such a treat, a break from the difficulty, a panacea or an opiate(which is better?). It was such a let down to find the words like that. Like a breech in contract. As if they had been cheating on you. And you have to realize once again how integral the reading is to the writing and vice-versa. And that there is no way over under or around this mood, you must go through it.

On a more up-beat note, I wish I had written this book(via Upstart Crow Literary). I have a thing for bears, especially ones that show their true violent and cuddly nature.

As Always(like beating a dead horse),
Tina