I've had a lot of deadlines lately in one of my other jobs. I'm a book critic, and last weekend, I had a stack of books waiting for me. I did the math, and with a sigh, I realized that I had more than 1500 pages to get through. I reached out for the first book, determined to get through the pile, and then I hesitated.
1500 pages. Yeah, that's a lot, but there used to be a time when that meant a lot of excitement. When had I started thinking in pages instead of books, in simple math instead of the amount of literary adventures waiting for me - in work instead of pleasure?
Being a book critic is work, of course; I get paid to do it, and I don't get to choose what I want to read. But it's a great job, as well. As a matter of fact, it's a dream job (even though it doesn't feel that way when you're forced to get through a less than stellar crime novel. No, Detective, don't go into the woods; the murderer is out there, you idiot). It was in that moment that I realized that I had to get back to how things used to be; otherwise even this dream job would end up being just another chore.
Luckily, it turned out I had some really great books waiting for me - as in books you remember, for the good and the bad and for everything inbetween. It gave me back some of the faith in literature I had obviously lost sometime along the way, reading all those bad books and experiencing all that horrible editing.
Now I have to take a look at my writing as well to make sure I don't make the same mistake there. If that means writing a little less or editing a little more, then so be it. The most important thing is to remember the joy of it.
I read and I write - everything from corporate to kink. My naughty fictional friends are always there to make my life interesting. And pester me, of course. Pesky creatures.