*Today’s blog is brought to you in the spirit of having started the damn thing three times and finally realising that I have nothing really intelligent to say*
Father Christmas brought me many wonderful books this year. I must have been good at hiding my tracks.
All writers start as readers. Reading teaches you more than any creative writing course can (although sometimes it helps to be told explicitly what you’ve been absorbing subconsciously ever since you were a wee bubba). Which is why I always have a good sprinklin’ of books on my mental wishlist and am a regular at my local library.
Christmas has always been bounty-time. I have my passions all fully represented: the history/geography selection which is my own secret love; the books on words and writing; a little SFF because you can’t go wrong; and a few little oddball-selections to bring the shits-and-giggles.
It’s all wonderful. The only downside? This is my current to-be-read shelf…
…and this in the midst of a clearout that’s already seen a few dozen books dispatched to charity.
Hey ho. We all have our crosses to bear.
I’m also reminded of the importance of non-fiction in the writer’s arsenal. Nothing, for me, stirs the little grey cells like a good book about ancient worlds. Which is why I’ve started the post-Christmas reading with Nicholas Crane’s mighty tome The Making of the British Landscape. I’m already loving it. It’s written in stirring, energetic prose that contains real beauty, real love and passion. Consider this a recommendation.
Happy new (western) year, y’all. I hope 2017 brings you much joy and many, many, wonderful words your way.