Books about writing are strewn across my desk. Some have catchy titles, others not. My favorite is “Good Naked” by Joni B. Cole, with “The Right to Write” by Julia Cameron a close second.
These works are chock full of wisdom and advice. Or so I assume. I’ve not read them.
I’ll be straight up honest with you. My writing isn’t as good as it could be. Heck, it’s not as good as it once was. That’s what happens when you go a few decades without setting a creative pen to paper.
I have a lot to learn and relearn, and not a lot of time. I’m entering my seventh decade. Family genetics suggests I’ll last well into my ninth. But if I’m going to leave behind a worthy body of work, it’s way past time to get moving.
So I write. And rewrite. With each story, and each iteration of a story, I try to get a little better. I’ve plucked the low hanging fruit of improvement. Now’s the time to scale a ladder and get at the upper branches.
So I need to read the craft books on my desk. I need to read the ones I’ve yet to purchase. Each will teach me something—if only that some writers don’t know squat about craft. The hard part is putting the ego aside and accepting the fact that no matter how far I’ve come, there’s an almost infinite road ahead. But at the end of the road lies an infinitely improved writer.
Hey, a guy’s allowed to dream, isn’t he?
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