My name is Stuart and I’m an addict.
Books. I can’t get enough of reading. I have them downloaded on to my phone, on the towel-shelf in the bathroom next to the toilet, in the bedroom. At work I take my meal breaks alone so I can read. I love reading. Fact, fiction, biography. Journal, blog, magazine. Prose and poetry, English, French or Spanish. I’ve got books queued up. Just last month I had three on the go at once until I finally forced myself to finish them one by one. One factual and scientific, another, a fictional yet heavily philosophical story, and the third, one of the original Sherlock Holmes books.
They expand my knowledge, stretch my imagination and widen my vocabulary, and I love it. I’ll choose a book over a film or a documentary any day. I haven’t owned a TV for years.
I pride myself on not wasting time on social media or addictive TV series, and I have no idea about new release films. I never watch the news.
I’m convinced that I’m climbing my way up the knowledge tree on my way to a pinnacle of wisdom from which I can look down on the world and smile benevolently. Well, that last sentence isn’t true, but the rest of it is.
I’m addicted to reading.
I am learning; some of it goes in and sticks, and I’m sure that the fiction gives my imagination a good workout. However, I have also come to realise, and subsequently admit, that there is a not-insignificant element of escapism at work here. How much of this newly assimilated knowledge and creativity have I actually put to use? Not a fat lot. And a lot of it, particularly that pertaining to nutrition, motivation, productivity, and fulfilment of my dreams, I really do need. Knowledge is not power after all. Only knowledge that is acted upon has any value. Otherwise it remains nothing more than an interesting theory.
Not taking advantage of the value of a book’s content is one thing, another is that it simply takes up time. I will of course argue that reading is always time well spent, but it pays to know when to put the book the down and give that time to something else. Which is, in my case, amongst other things, writing. Reading may help to improve my writing, but not as much as writing will. All of these other authors lend inspiration, technique and ideas, but at some point I have to put the book down and pick up the pen. Or my stories remain untold, gathering dust on the shelves of my fading memory banks.
I need to set goals and timescales in order to accomplish them. Put myself under a little pressure. It’s no good waiting for inspiration or the right time. You can’t force creativity ´they´ say. Well, I say it’s a bit like luck. When it comes, you have to be ready to take advantage of it. And that means practice. Trial, error and trial again. Hone your skills every day, rain or shine, inspired or not, so that when creativity strikes (if indeed it is a thing which hits you rather than a thing you strive for) you’re ready to take advantage of it and throw all of your best tools and abilities into the work.
That’s the new me. That’s what I’m trying to do. Write, write and write some more. Explore my interests, topics and styles, knowing that if I put out a huge volume of stuff (not necessary all of it out in public) then there’s a decent chance that some of it will be legible, enjoyable, or maybe even useful!
As with writing, so with the rest of my life. More focus on what motivates me. More attention to that which fascinates me. More dedication to what makes sense and to what might help, and help not only my own cause.
Stuart Westwood 