books

Back when I was a baby Jen, I read anything and everything within my reach. Magazines, letters, cereal boxes, books far out of my age range on both sides. Six words or sixty thousand words, it didn't matter to me as long as I was reading something.

I read ALL of the books. I read four Little Women books, about twelve Anne of Green Gables books, a couple of Nancy Drews. I read three What Katy Did books and spent several years trying to find the other two, with no success. I read Lewis Carroll and C.S. Lewis, I read Enid Blyton (everything except the Famous Five, and I have no idea why that is), I read Roald Dahl, I read Judy Blume, and I read an embarrassing amount of Sweet Valley High because once I'd read one, I wanted to know everything that ever happened to them. It didn't matter that they weren't written very well; I could make them better with a little twist of the mind.

I read Kipling. I read the Bible (and was deeply uncomfortable with God from that point on). I attempted to read my mother's copy of The Hobbit but decided after twenty minutes of trying very hard that this clearly wasn't a book that was meant to be read. I read about the history, lifestyles and myths of the ancient Greeks in the library then came home and washed it down with something gleefully childish, full of rainbows and squirrels.

It used to be my second favourite thing in the world, just behind making up stories of my own. And yet I realised recently that I've barely read a book in years beyond constant revisiting of my worn out Pratchetts. There are maybe half a dozen novels in my room, more than one unread, and I haven't been at all moved to pick them up.

Occasionally a curiosity sparks in me and I do read something, but I can remember them all, well-spaced out in my mind. The first half of my life was a torrent of books, and in the 20 minutes I've been writing this I've remembered at least two dozen books I'd completely forgotten having read. The last few years, however, I can remember every book I read, and the sense of accomplishment when I finished each one. There. I read a book. An actual book. I got pickier, not wanting to read anything that might disappoint me. I loved reading mostly in theory, sure that there could be no greater feeling than reading that one life-altering book, but just as sure that book would not be out there for the finding. Then I got writer's block, and reading only served to remind me of what I couldn't do anymore. This isn't even very good, the book would say to me, and yet you can't do any better. 

A few days ago it occurred to me that not reading anything was at the very least feeding into my still ongoing writer's block. My brain gets stuck on a very narrow, specific way of creating plot and characters and narrative, and I'm not feeding it anything to show a different way of doing things. I haven't been able to get past a couple of thousand words in my last two years of NaNoWriMo, and my lack of ability to get a story out is more painful than I'd like to admit. My PLAN commands me to produce a story this November. I won't be at work, and by then I'll have told them that I don't intend to come back. To end November with a long-overdue novel and an even longer-overdue P45 would be the best indicator of a new start that I could get.

With that in mind, I rediscovered Project Gutenberg and opened up Vanity Fair, based on having seen an off-hand mention of Becky Sharp on Twitter the day before. I started reading it on Friday evening and by Sunday night I was finished. This morning I read A Doll's House, which has been on my list for years. I'm hoping to have a novel open in a tab pretty much constantly all month, though as yet I have absolutely no idea what I'm hoping to read and am on the lookout for recommendations. Maybe if I can read, I can write again.

P.S. Project Gutenberg has the two books I searched for in vain as a child, so later on this month Baby Jen is getting a much-delayed treat.