I’m running a little late today. The day job has taken over my life a little bit, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I enjoy the day job immensely, but sometimes it requires a lot out of me in order to do it the right way.
Regardless, onward and upward. Last year I read 71 novels and three memoirs, for a total of 74 books. I don’t think I’m going to hit that mark this year, but I’m trying to continue reading a good deal. Time spent with a book is much better than time spent in front of the TV (or internet, for that matter).
The hopeful part of me thinks that reading so much will motivate me to write more and better during this new year. And I think that’ll happen. But when I hit the very good novels–like, say, Stardust by Neil Gaiman–I see how much further I have to go. There are novelists out there that I can say I’m better than. I write better than they do, from an objective viewpoint. I know that sounds arrogant, but I don’t mean it that way. Even though I may write better than they do, if they’re a published novelist, they’re doing something I can’t or won’t do: drafting, re-drafting, polishing, submitting.
I have to put in the work to get the rewards. That’s just the cold, hard truth.