Apparently that is the question at my stage of life.
Except for last week (when I was totally focused on writing) I’ve been trying to do a bit of both, and it’s fairly unsatisfying. Not enough continuity for either.
So I’ve going to see if I can refrain from writing for a week and start pecking away at the collection of YA fantasy that I’ve been accumulating. I can’t promise I won’t write about them later, but I’m going to try to stay away from writing and just see what it feels like to shift focus.
I’ve often felt that reading makes me want to write the same way eating something fabulous makes me ask for the recipe: I want to do this! But I’m trying to remember that there are people “out there” perfectly content to just read.
To just eat.
And (while I think the latter are plain lucky and possibly in danger of over-indulging) I think the former experience a type of enjoyment I’ve been missing for a while. So here I go…
One more note: Semicolon posted an excerpt that perfectly encapsulates why I haven’t tried this for a while:
“But I too hate long books: the better, the worse. If they’re bad, they merely make me pant with the effort of holding them up for a few minutes. But if they’re good, I turn into a social moron for days, refusing to go out of my room, scowling and growling at interruptions, ignoring weddings and funerals, and making enemies out of friends.”
–Vikram Seth in A Suitable Boy
To resist this common result, my goal at the same time– though it seems at first to be contradictory– is to experiment again with finding patterns in my daily life, and seeking how we might tie that pattern to day.
The alternative is tying the day to the activities, which invariably results in a less purposeful day, and usually ends with less accomplished.
Some might try to call this exercise scheduling, but I resist that label as utterly stifling and useless to me.
So, wish me luck. I’m off to find out if I can mix some new things into my life.