The Read Write War

Whenever I have free time—which, let’s be honest, isn’t as often as I’d like—I always war with myself about what I want to do. There are only two options: read or write. (Okay, actually, the third would be watch TV/catch up on the shows on my DVR, but I’m going to say this falls under read since it’s someone else telling me a story. That'd put me back at two options.)

First, what’s free time for me? Not work time, or the time I spend with family, friends, or my husband. Definitely not the 90-ish minutes I spend in traffic every work day. Free time is those moments when my husband turns on a video game, or when I’m the only one home, or when…well, that may be it. It doesn’t happen often. When it does, it’s awesome. I have to choose very carefully what I do with it.

Whenever we took career assessment tests in school, whenever we had to do any kind of introduction for ourselves, whenever asked my hobbies, my first two answers were always read and write. Always. I think this confused a lot of people. I think people were looking for something like basketball or shopping or traveling or hanging out with friends. I liked those things too, just nowhere near how much I liked reading and writing. And you know what? Reading and writing are still my favorite things to do. The problem is, when I have time, which do I choose?

I live for words. Writing words is a release that’s so hard to describe, a release that surely others must get from whatever they love to do. I love to tell a story—mostly just for myself, but there’s the dream that they’ll be for someone else, too. When I’m on a writing roll, I get annoyed with the rest of the world. I like to stay in my writing bubble and get all the words down before they run off. I think, if you’ve read any of my other blog posts (except maybe the sperm whale vomit one), that you understand the role writing plays in my life. But….

I’ll be honest. I wouldn’t be the writer I am today without all the books I’ve read. Other writers are probably like, “Well, duh.” But I think some people might not understand this. As much as I love to write words, I revel in the words and worlds other writers have written for me, for everyone. When a book is really good, I can read it anywhere. I WILL READ IT ANYWHERE. I read on the metro in Paris. I read in the middle of gym class. I read during parties. (Yes, I’m that girl.) I read at work when others are talking, tasting, flavoring around me. When my closest friends come over—the ones who enjoy reading as much as I do—I pull them into my library and show them the newest, best books I’ve read. I’ve recently introduced one friend to YA because I love it so much. I also read adult fiction, but more than half of what I read is YA. (Tangent: That statement is just asking for a blog post. Why YA? I’ll analyze it someday, I promise.) It’s from these YA books and so many others that I’ve learned how to craft a story. It’s in these YA books that I relax.

So how do I choose whether to read or write? If I’m in the middle of a good scene, one where the words won’t leave me alone, I choose writing. Sometimes I spend a whole day thinking about what I’m going to write next, perfecting the words, until my head feels like it’ll explode if I don’t get the words on paper or computer. Other days, I’m in the middle of a really, really, really good book—right now that’d be 17 & Gone by Nova Ren Suma—and can’t wait until I get to read more.

I devour books. Words devour me.

In the end it doesn’t matter which I pick. There are no real battles here, no war. I spend enough time with both reading and writing. And now I’m finished writing, you’re finished reading, and I’m going to go read while, perhaps, you go write.