I’m gonna be honest for a minute about something silly I’m bitter about. They said reading was supposed to make you better at writing, that the reason writers can write is because writers, the good ones, also read.
Well, I read. And I intentionally read for over a year. I do not, however, feel like it did anything to make me any better at writing. There’s supposed to be a bridge that connects your left brain to your right brain, and for whatever reason, my bridge isn’t there. I can feel the blank space where the connections never formed. The things on the left side cannot organize themselves to make it over to the right side, and the things on the right side have nothing to do but swim around inside there. That didn’t change.
So I’m bitter about it. If I work at something and don’t see results, then I quit–unless I want something else bad enough, then I keep going. I quit reading because not only do I have no desire to read, but I’m actually mad at reading, if that’s possible. I’m completely over it and don’t care anymore.
All of us went down to the lake today. I didn’t bring a book because there’s nothing I’m reading, but I did bring water, a towel, my beach first-aid bag, and a hat to shelter my face from the sun. It felt good to just be us, without Memorial Day swimmers or the kindhearted volunteer fixing the bridge. My husband and I laid out on the raft and talked about camp and what he’d gotten done at work. He asked me if I felt like I’d gotten a lot done, and I told him it didn’t feel like a lot, but it felt like the regular, normal amount.