I’m currently away from home on a writing retreat in upstate New York. These kinds of excursions are good for getting rid of the distractions of home and focusing on writing. It helps that there are 7 other writers here (all members of Altered Fluid) who are here for the same reason. It’s harder to goof off when there are others writing around you.

Still, there are times when I need a break. And since I’m not at home, those breaks usually take the form of reading. Now I’ve always felt that reading is a good way of recharging my batteries. I get many of my ideas by reading works by other people. I think I’ve talked about it here – it’s not a matter of pulling ideas from other people, but more a process of leapfrogging from them. And idea sparks a related idea that sparks another and so on. Usually the end result is distantly related to the original concept. But it works for me. I’m constantly putting down books that I’m reading just to consider the ideas they’ve sparked in my head.

But just now, while I was taking a break and reading I realized something else. It may seem obvious, but when I’m reading good writing, it makes me fall in love with the language and with the idea of using it to communicate. Really, I know it seems simple. But sometimes in all the effort to work on things and revise and finish, the part about being in love with the writing itself can get lost.

So there I was, on my bed away from home, reading Ian McDonald, and just getting a thrill from reading his sentences, and the way he crafts a narrative. And I kept thinking, I want to do this. And I have been, but it’s always nice to be reminded of how much it thrills me, and how much I enjoy taking my turn at bat, trying to knock it out of the park.

So, that’s what I’m about to do. If you’re wondering where I am, I’ll be swinging.