I was driving home from running some errands earlier, and as I approached the used bookstore down the street from my house, I experienced a nearly irresistible impulse to pull in.
I haven’t been there in quite some time, because I have a ton of books already that I haven’t read, because I’ve found it rather difficult to concentrate on reading, as of late. I do it before bed in little one-chapter increments and then I go to sleep.
I checked out the discount paperback rack, and was severely tempted to snatch up an armload of these beauties:
I grabbed a couple, because my budget doesn’t allow for any splurging at this time, especially for something relatively trivial.
And then I saw this:
I returned the paperbacks to their home and headed straight for the register, because I had just been coveting this volume after seeing it posted by a member of a Facebook sci-fi group.
I’ve read the odd Bradbury story or novel here and there, but this is the mother lode:
This is the kind of stuff I actually love to read. I rarely read anything modern. When I sit down to write, this is the well of greatness from which I draw my inspiration. This is what I aspire to be.
I’ve been feeling (more than) a bit discouraged lately about my prospects of actually making my dream of one day writing books for a living(even if it’s a modest one, I’ll take it) into reality.
The last time I felt this down about it, I watched a documentary about Edgar Allen Poe that left me deeply inspired, my resolve strengthened. I quickly jotted down a story about it.
Instead of doing that, this time I think I’ll simply write the best book I can while soaking up these wonderful literary treasures. Maybe I’ll even read them aloud to my wife, or my doggies. 😂