sjsprWriting

It's strange.

Honestly. 

I mean, really strange. 

My entire room is basically filled with books. Books on my desk. Books on my night table. Books under the desk. Books in drawers. Books on shelves. You get it. 

Yet, despite all these pages and characters and stories and settings and feelings that decorate my room, I don't read. 

Well, give me a minute.

I read. Hell, of course I read. But not as much as I would like. 

Not because I don't have time. Not because I get bored (Lord knows books - well, MOST - aren't boring). And not because I ponder on whether or not I will ever get to write as well as some of the men and women whose words I keep so close to me.

It's always the first chapter. I read five, ten, fifteen pages - as long as that first chapter takes - and then I stop. I can't keep going. I'm not sure why.
But ever since I can last remember, I've loved introductions to what may happen later on in the story. And ever since I can last remember, I've loved to make my own stories from those very same introductions.

Then there's the occasional "Hm, what if I keep reading?" So, you know, I do keep reading. And I love how the stories I came up with aren't at all the ones portrayed in the book. It's how I learn, I suppose. Makes me write stuff that's unexpected. Convoluted. Simple, to the point but - HEY! - when did that happen? 

Yeah. I owe it to all those first chapters.