The hole left from the lack of writing has been filled with a few books recently. I decided to read a couple of series that hit my favorites list, trying to reignite a little of that passion and inspiration that set me to writing in the first place. It is strange to re-read these books that I love, and come to find out how much I’ve actually forgotten, some of the surprise hitting me all over again. Its a wonderful thing. Bless my feeble memory, for it grants me a second experience to breathe through the words on the page.

My curiosity picked the back of my head, allowing me, more like dragging me, through the words I’ve written for my novel. Its chunky in places, thin in others, but a story that holds promise. Its better than it was the first time, many years earlier, and better than the rough draft I cranked out at the end of the last year. I’m almost ready. Almost.

I’m interested, but I don’t crave it. Its there waiting patiently, but I’m not ready to hold hands and walk down the road. At least that’s something.

Reading, just to read, is fun. I’ve done it for years, regardless of genre or topic. I can get just as much joy from reading Homer, or a commentary on the Greek Phalanx, as I can from fantasy novels. I like to learn, and I like living the experiences of others. Its like living multiple lives. Writing is like that, but instead of living it, you’re creating it.

The road looks deserted, but it continues over the horizon. Thankfully I have many books to occupy me as I walk.