Are you really a writer if you don't read avariciously?

I guess that depends on your definition of 'writer'. The OD describes it as someone who writes something. No shit.

I think a writer is compelled to write just as an artist is driven to make art. And now I’ve sidestepped us down a precarious path, one that asks us to define art. Hang on, writing is art, isn’t it? Don’t start. I don’t have time for that. No one does. Anyway, it’s a pointless discussion and not at all what I came here for. You can blame the delectable

Matt Shewbridge

for what I came here for. One of his Stack notes had me nodding like a dashboard bulldog:

“I love Substack; it’s great. But, you know, we get it. You love books. You love books because you’re intelligent and wise and deep. You love books more than I do, more than she does. More than anyone does. You love books so much, they’re actually a vice. You love books so much you don’t boast about buying them; you confess. ‘I may have accidentally spent too much money on books’ are your words but your message is: I LOVE BOOKS MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE. I AM THEREFORE SPECIAL. NOTICE ME, FOR I AM A BOOK-LOVING INTROVERT IN A WORLD OF SHALLOW EXTRAVERTS. We know, Substack.”

That warmed my granite heart.

I’m one of about three ‘writers’—in the world—not just on Substack who doesn’t breathe books.

Does it show?

Probably.

Aren’t I supposed to be reading ALL THE BOOKS to be a good—maybe someday moderately great writer? But they have to be the right books. Ulysses and some such titles no one particularly enjoys—but must read—no matter how cursory so I can say I’ve read them, technically speaking.

Sure, bibliophiles collect books they delight in reading. They’re not all cerebral showoffs. I’m sure bookish folks have guilty literary pleasures, the kind that would never bag the Booker Prize. But for the love of Christ don’t mention Kindle, or worse—Audible. How the hell are you supposed to experience the ritual of reading without an actual book? You can’t smell/caress/rub a digital publication on your genitals—not properly. Virtual books rid us of the sanctity of reading because a book isn’t just about the words you take in, it’s also about the weight of it resting on your hand, the smoothness of the dust jacket against your fingertips…

Mary, mother of God.

Fyi, I can read.

Mostly articles that help with my job. Occasionally, I read for fun. Usually biographies, often mudery fiction. I fold the corners of book pages. And without conscience, I bend their spines. So no, I’m not a writer at all, I’m a monster.

---

More like this…

Erotic fucktion: why is it so shit?