The Effect of Reading Excellent Books

Last summer I set myself the task of rereading influential books in my life; the list is here. At the time I was attempting to extrapolate je ne sais quoi, with a view to planning the extended creative piece for my MA but actually I just submerged myself in reading and forgot about the original remit. 

But a tricky thing about being a writer is the awe and intimidation of reading great writers. It’s easy for me to fall into thinking ‘This book is such genius, what’s the point of me trying’. But if we all did that there would have been nothing after Shakespeare. I am tending back to the days of just enjoying; being a reader again. Critique and analysis can come later. And instead of being intimidated enjoying the wonderfulness other writers are making.

And occasionally I’ll read something and think, ‘I write better than this’. In a strange way this is inspiring. If mediocrity can get published then there’s hope for me. I obviously need to read more rubbish books to feed my self-esteem. 

The other thing that inspires me is when I happen across novels that are actually grouped short stories. David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas made me think that maybe I could write a novel, as long as I wove my short stories together beguilingly. 

I’m trying to savour the last couple of chapters of Claire Fuller’s Our Endless Numbered Days, but realistically I know I’ll eat them up this evening. I really am all or nothing when I’m reading. It can takes me weeks to finish something that I don’t quite connect to; it turns into that obligatory ten minutes a day thing. But when I’m connected my world is consumed and I’ll do nothing else that I can get away with not doing. I remember reading the first Harry Potter, being disappointed when I was given it, a children’s book, but then snatching sneaky minutes in parks and on benches on my walk home through Bloomsbury to the lot less glamorous King’s Cross. (I never thought that the publisher was Bloomsbury and the station for Hogwarts was two minutes from my flat.) I even recall being at a barbeque and taking my book to the toilet to have a sneaky read. 

So when I disappear from Twitter for a while it’s pretty probable there are more important things occupying my mind, like great books. Or, of course, my own writing; which may not brilliant but is still a chunk of my soul.