This turns out to be a bad thing. Not only for the obvious reasons that I have lost a pleasant pastime but also that my own writing, in the absence of new input, has stagnated. It turns out that in order to improve my own writing I must read works of others. Indeed, for a while I was feeling quite hopeless at how my abilities seemed to be standing still when not that long before they had been growing exponentially. I didn't equate the lack of time spent reading to the lack of my own growth until I was forced by way of becoming Writer in Residence for Open Book Toronto, to read a great number of locally produced books in order to either recommend them or not. Reading pushed away the fuzz that came of burying my self exclusively in my own words and reinvigorated me.
So now I am determined to inhale books. I must, for the sake of my own career, read. It's not a bad vitamin to take. I'm quite pleased with the therapy. I've already reached chapter two in The Great Gatsby just yesterday. I hear it is wonderfully written. So far I am smitten.
So lesson learned. Read to write better. Got it.
Now, back to my book!