Passions

I suppose all of us have at least one passion in our life. Reading has always been a passion of mine, but then writing has also been one of my passions, too. I've always thought that I was capeable of writing a book, always known I've had a story inside of me, but whenever I've sat down to write that story I've learned just how hard writing is. I understand why writers, or should I say "authors" make so much money from the sale of their books. Writing is grueling work! It's not easy to put something down on paper that makes sense, that other people will find intresting enough to read. Hell, it's not east to put something down on paper that makes sense, that I will find intresting enought to read!! Yes, writing is a passion and the hardest work I think I have ever attempted, and yet here I am trying my hand at it. The silliest part of this entire project is, as you can see, I don't have a subject to write about. I have covered and entire paragraph right here about absolutely nothing. Now, thats talent, if I do say so myself. Not, too bad, is it? What do you think? Do I still have your intrest? Have I lost you yet? I'll bet you are still hanging on only to see where I am going to take you, right? I know I'd better make up my mind fast about where this thing is going to go, or you are the one that's going to be gone. See, what I mean about this writing thisng being hard? yep, it's much harder than it looks.

I used to think writing was so easy. Just pick a topic and start writing away. Back when I was so sure that I was capeable of writing a book, I was going to write about my screwed up life and even screwer family, so I sat down and began with my birth. You can't tell a story in sequence like that in the first place. It's very boring and then you forget things. By the time I had gotten to my teenage years I realized that I had only covered about three paragraphs and had omitted probably seven or eight important years of my life. So, I had to go back and then I had things so confussed and messed up I had to start all over. By this time I was discouraged and so I quit. A few years later I decided again that I was going to write a book so again I sat down and began to write from the beginning and once again I made the very same mistakes. How dumb can one person be, I thought. I was doing the exact same thing again, writing in sequence again. Yet, I knew I had never in my life read a book that was written from the time a person was born until the time that person died. It's just not done that way. Most books that are written about a person's life begin in the middle of that person's life and then they flashback to the beginning and then jump back to the present, flashback again and so on. Gradually they continue on as the person ages and then the main character of the book dies and bam! You have a life story. At least that's the way it goes in most of the books I have read. But stupid me here has always wanted to begin at the beginning and end at the end. Books just aren't done that way. I don't know what I was trying to prove. Maybe that I didn't know the first thing about writing? That sounds completely logical to me.

Now that I know how NOT to write a book, I probably should not even attempt it. As I said, it's grueling work. Knowing me, I would forget so much that was important to the story and so much that I wanted to put into it. You can be sure that whaatever my main idea was I would omit it, or dance around it. I'd probably forget my most important characters. And descriptions get me, too. When I am reading a book the hardest parts for me to read are what I lovingly refer to as the "who hung the bathroom curtains" parts. Those are the descriptive parts that are so important to the background of the story but that I couldn't care less about. I don't like reading those parts and usually only just skim them; I can't hardly imagine me spending much time writing about them and yet to make any book intresting they have to be included. If I were going to describe a bright blue sky, that is exactly how I would describe it....a bright blue sky. I seriousy doubt if I would have the patience to describe it as a wonderful descriptive writer would describe that sky to where you would be able to picture it in your minds eye so perfectly as to be able to see the huge white clouds billowing in the breeze as they floated lazily towards the east while the sun made shadows dance on the ground from the sway of the trees on a bright and sunny Sunday afternoon in late May, where off in the distance you could hear the sounds of children laughing and birds singing...are you getting the idea, here? Like I said, writing is tough work and authors earn their money.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, my other great passion is reading what others write. Ever since I can remember, I have been escaping this world through books. I would curl up in a corner someplace with a book and as far as I knew, I was invisible to those around me. People could call my name over and over again and I would not hear a thing. My mother used to have to come right up to me and shake me by the shoulder to bring me back from whatever place it was that I had gone off to via the book I happened to be reading at the time. I could have been as far away as another culture and century or I could have been as close as the next county, but my mind was never with what was going on in the present, in our home. If I had a book, I had escaped. This practice began with me when I was about eight years old and has continued my entire life. Reading has always been a priviledge for me. I have been blessed to be able to visit other countries, different cultures; I have learned about things I never knew existed because of the miracle of the written word. There have been times when I have thought that books and my ability to completely escape reality in them has quite literally saved my life. I have used reading as a tool for pleaseure, for learning, for relaxation, and for a complete vacation from everyday life. To stop reading, for me, would be equivalent to stopping breathing and to ever make me choose between the two would be so unfair; for me the two go hand in hand.