I’m not much of a writer. Some people will readily attest to that (sometimes without even being asked). I actually get a lot more out of visual art and music than writing. My dad’s the writer in the family. He started blogging recently, and even had several blogs on the go until he got tired of it. For the longest time he had piles and piles of books lining his bedroom walls: books by Joyce, Faulkner, Nash, Vonnegut, and probably, um, thousands of other people I’ve never even heard of. Apparently he cleaned out a whole lot of them. I got some of his extra copies. Books like The Return of the Native, Jane Eyre, The Turn of the Screw, The Stone Angel. I’ve heard horror stories about that last one, from traumatized students who had to read it in twelfth-grade English class. Apparently it’s real depressing. I think in twelfth-grade English, I was reading The Glass Menagerie. Not to mention making home movies about it, complete with car stunts and death metal (and pinch harmonics – thanks Brandon). Ahhh, Tennessee Williams. As if I wasn’t insane enough already.
Anyway, all that to say that I’m not much of a writer (except for writing the odd piece of poetry). I read books, sure, but I have trouble finishing them. I get bored easily when books don’t move along fast enough. Some books are better for this than others.