It feels like I'm always playing catch up. I guess it started as a kid. I just wasn't interested in the long series books where every story ended the same way. (Even before I started writing I was all about plot). If only Harry Potter or Twilight had come sooner and had a chance to suck me into their secret world. It wasn't until I snuck one of my father's books into my backpack at the age of twelve that I realized how fulfilling reading could be. But I was a decade behind and I've been trying to catch up ever since.
Don't get me wrong, I had excellent English teachers who demanded I over-analyze the classics. I still had to speed read through Bridget Jones though because my classmates already had the edge on Austen. It seems no matter how many novels I have bookmarks in at any given moment - one for the train ride home, one for right before sleep and one for an indulgent soak in a bubble bath - I can never keep up. I'm swimming in a sea of books that I never have time to catch.
The same is true for writing. I have notebooks from the last fifteen years tucked anywhere I can find the space, zip drives full and sitting idle waiting for the last edit. There isn't enough time to polish the stories on the page least wise write the ones in my head.
Now with the holidays in full swing, my time is spent at the mall (finding even more books begging to be read) or at home wrapping, decorating, and, thanks to Hallmark, wrapping decorations. In fact, it's likely that the only thing I will write this week will be Christmas cards.
If my Secret Santa is reading this, I could really do with a gift of more time.
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