As you read this, I'm assuming somewhere in your home there's a bookshelf or two or even more. I have four and they are full! In fact, a fifth one is probably inevitable. How did this happen? How could I, in nearly thirty years of life, accumulate over four hundred books? It's a mystery! Half of these books I don't even recognize or remember buying, yet here I am on the couch, looking up at them all as they stare back at me. They call to me, a siren's song that demands to be heard.
Yet, how do I answer the call? How do I read them all? I feel like for every book I finish, 20 more appear! I am drowning in a wave within a papercut ridden ocean. Oh well, I still love it. I love my collection, I love to be excited for new stories, new worlds to dive into. I know I'm not the only one either.
But what have we done? I know I'm not the only one with the endless bookshelf. I know I'm not the only one who feels lost in the worlds awaiting on the shelves. They grow. They breathe. It is life itself in those pages. Those endless pages.
As a writer, it is important to read, to understand the words we use, what is good prose, what is not, etc. etc. Yet, as a writer, we all seem to lose ourselves in our books we own. What do we read next? Do we keep up with trends? Do we hunt down indie stories? Everyone has a preference, but at the end of the day, we're readers, and we will never stop.
Thus it becomes endless. We read a book, we keep it. We read another, we donate it. It all depends on what we love or hate. This creates the endless bookshelf. This is the imaginary door we always walk through, our Narnia so to speak. Every time we step inside it's something new, and honestly could we ever ask for more?
So keep reading. Reading inspires. Then you keep writing, and really at the end of the day, that's the important matter here. That we write, write, write!