To Write, One Must Read
A long lost love, rediscovered
DIARY ENTRY #2
For some time now, I’ve been writing. Roughly three years. Wait. That’s a lie. I can probably trace my earliest stories back to messy journals from elementary school, but officially, I’ve been writing novels (with the intention of being a writer, not “doing homework”) since 2023. And if I read an early piece from 2023 and compare it to the paragraphs I wrote yesterday, I can see the growth. The voice is getting stronger! With that said, I’ve come to a plateau. My writing feels like it’s missing something. Like it’s trying too hard. It wants to carve itself into a sword, but I've only recently realized I don’t yet have all the tools to do so. I was trying to skip the most important step in becoming a writer.
Being a reader.
Did you know that reading is vital? It’s quite literally the IV line a writer must be hooked up to in order to sustain the life of both the writer and their book. It’s one of those sayings that everyone tosses around: “To write, one must read”. I tend to be a slow learner. Of course, I know I should read! I used to, and I loved to! And yet, I was struggling to do so. Reading takes time. Time away from writing.
Don’t I have to finish writing the book ASAP!?
If I slow down to read, will I ever finish writing!?
What if I lose this idea?!
What happens if the book changes my ideas???
These are all questions that plague me. They may sound like the same fear - what if I’m not good enough? A fear I imagine most people sit with at some point in their lives. But my worry isn’t about skill; it’s about time. I was racing against a clock I’d wound myself. Projecting this deadline onto my work and comparing my first draft to other finished, published work. It was as though my words weren’t running fast enough in the race, but little did I know I wasn’t ready to compete. And certainly not in the same heat as many others.
I was trying to run before I could crawl.
I nearly forgot the whole reason I wanted to write in the first place. I almost forgot the fire that books lit in me. I don’t want to write for some potential fame. I don’t want to do it for some amount of money. Those are not pieces of life that intrigue me. But the legacy of storytelling? That’s an ancient, human pastime. An odd calling that strikes the heart, pierces the mind, and spreads like a virus until my fingers dispel the dark magic at the keys. As Stephen King puts it, “it’s telepathy”, a baton in the relay of thought, passed down from mind to mind over centuries. Reading is basically magic! I wish to carry a torch of my own to spark the minds of others as they have lit the way for me. But in trying to write, I’ve forgotten to read. Writing is the output. But Reading is the input. One cannot exist (well) without the other.
So I joined a Book Club. I was finally reading again - hallelujah! But then it was the only book I was reading that month. Somehow, the only space I had was for a book assigned to me. I’d lost the freedom of scouring the library shelves or using Libby to discover or dive into my own desires. I was learning, certainly. Pushing boundaries on genres and sharing ideas with fellow readers. But reading became a chore. And then it became another race. Members praised others who’d read 70, 80, 100 books in a year, making my 12 appear insignificant.
But what if I adored my 12 more than they adored their 100? What if those 12 sit deep within my soul, carved out and now at home, while the other craved the number one hundred more than the books themselves, all to be washed away with the new year's goal? Like a Goodreads Challenge, where you race to read any and everything to fill that little dopamine meter on the top of the webpage. For me, the little meter only measured disappointment and rage. That I wasn’t doing enough, fast enough. Reading became something to be witnessed, seen by others, praised, and liked. It was about the performance. The idea of reading. Not being a reader. So I struggle to read in a world that simply wants the optics of a reader. Wants to sell me the cover, the binding, the edges, the bookmarks, the shirts, the adaptation, and even the author, but forgets that all I crave are the words inside the book and on the page.
So I’ve abandoned measuring my intake online and the book club for now. It was like tracking calories for me - a toxic, slippery slope. And with that breakup came the distance needed to see a way forward, allowing me to pick up reading for the sake of learning, but also for the deeper desire and permission to simply love it again.
I’ve decided to embark on a historical journey through the evolution of Science Fiction and Fantasy.
I’ve given myself a curriculum of sorts. I do love scholarly adventures. Perhaps some of you may enjoy it as well. There’s no homework other than to challenge yourself, to think about the work, maybe even critically, and to enjoy it along the way.
The mission: I’m going to read the earliest works in the field and move forward through time, watching my literary heroes inspire the next generation. I want to watch Isaac Asimov teach Frank Herbert like Socrates taught Plato. All the way to the modern and beastly greats like Brandon Sanderson, Pierce Brown, Adrian Tchaikovsky, R.F. Kuang, N.K. Jemisin, and so many more.
The plan is to alternate between Sci-Fi and Fantasy, watching the two take inspiration from world events, inspire each other, and the media, as well. I’m often of the notion that science fiction and fantasy are two sides of the same coin. In describing the concept for his novel, Skyward, Brandon Sanderson reshapes the trope of “the boy and his dragon” and asks, “What if…a girl and her spaceship?”
I’m working on creating this massive list in Excel to keep track of everything from the author's name or publication date to awards and significance in the genre. I’ll post this list as soon as it’s done (and update it as needed) for anyone who’d like to use it or follow along.
That all said - it’s time for me to read. Care to join?
🦋 Andi