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296 pages, Paperback
First published June 2, 2000
If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There鈥檚 no way around these two things that I鈥檓 aware of, no shortcut.
I鈥檓 a slow reader, but I usually get through seventy or eighty books a year, mostly 铿乧tion. I don鈥檛 read in order to study the craft; I read because I like to read. It鈥檚 what I do at night, kicked back in my blue chair. Similarly, I don鈥檛 read 铿乧tion to study the art of 铿乧tion, but simply because I like stories. Yet there is a learning process going on. Every book you pick up has its own lesson or lessons, and quite often the bad books have more to teach than the good ones.
It鈥檚 hard for me to believe that people who read very little (or not at all in some cases) should presume to write and expect people to like what they have written, but I know it鈥檚 true. If I had a nickel for every person who ever told me he/she wanted to become a writer but 鈥渄idn鈥檛 have time to read,鈥� I could buy myself a pretty good steak dinner.
Can I be blunt on this subject? If you don鈥檛 have time to read, you don鈥檛 have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.
Talent renders the whole idea of rehearsal meaningless; when you 铿乶d something at which you are talented, you do it (whatever it is) until your 铿乶gers bleed or your eyes are ready to fall out of your head. Even when no one is listening(or reading, or watching), every outing is a bravura performance, because you as the creator are happy. Perhaps even ecstatic. That goes for reading and writing as well as for playing a musical instrument, hitting a baseball, or running the four-forty. The sort of strenuous reading and writing program I advocate鈥攆our to six hours a day, every day鈥攚ill not seem strenuous if you really enjoy doing these things and have an aptitude for them; in fact, you may be following such a program already.
If you feel you need permission to do all the reading and writing your little heart desires, however, consider it hereby granted by yours truly.
One of my favorite stories on the subject鈥攑robably more myth than truth鈥攃oncerns James Joyce. According to the story, a friend came to visit him one day and found the great man sprawled across his writing desk in a posture of utter despair.
鈥淛ames, what鈥檚 wrong?鈥� the friend asked. 鈥淚s it the work?鈥�
Joyce indicated assent without even raising his head to look at the friend. Of course it was the work; isn鈥檛 it always?
鈥淗ow many words did you get today?鈥� the friend pursued.
Joyce (still in despair, still sprawled facedown on his desk):
鈥沦别惫别苍.鈥�
鈥淪even? But James . . . that鈥檚 good, at least for you!鈥�
鈥淵es,鈥� Joyce said, 铿乶ally looking up. 鈥淚 suppose it is . . . but I don鈥檛 know what order they go in!鈥�