Jinked

Rahsaan bought me a book today: Stephen King’s On Writing, a book that my mother had tried to get me to read many, many years ago. For some reason I never got around to it. Too busy. Always too busy.

I think it was just an excuse.

Now with this new chapter of my life staring at me with its blank pages open, I think it’s time to give the book a read. There has to be a reason why my mother and Rahsaan like it so much. I’m sure I will uncover something as I read.

I couldn’t tell you when I last read a book, let alone tell you what the title of it was. It’s been that long. So long and so unmotivated. Jaded. Even a little depressed, enough that I couldn’t even think of reading. Now though, I’m looking forward to having the time to do it. Plus, reading always improves one’s writing.

Always.

Maybe I won’t feel disgust when I read the things I type in a couple weeks. I feel so… elementary. Simple and shallow. It’s a crappy feeling to have gnawing at you.