I’ve been doing more reading then ever before in my life. One reason for that is that I think I’m using reading as an escape mechanism; when I’m reading I’m not thinking about anything else going on in my life, and that’s often a welcome relief. The second reason is that I’ve realized that my desire to become a language arts teacher, as opposed to a high school English teacher, puts me very much at a disadvantage in terms of my knowledge of the texts, and therefore I’m trying desparately to “catch up” so to speak. And finally, I’ve been finding some really incredible books that have been “hiding” in the YA section of the library, a section no adult ever thinks to enter after maybe age 13…with the exception of a few of course.
Of course, all this reading takes time. Something that I suddenly have in abundance…and probably one of the few bonuses of being unemployed and not in school. And with time also comes much thinking and pondering and wondering and analyzing (both a good and bad side effect). And with this thinking and reading and thinking and hoping comes an unexpected urge to start picking up a pen again (or keyboard) and trying my hand at writing a book. Digging my hand into the YA section has brought a welcome relief. I’ve realized that great stories don’t necessarily have to be the great american novel, that there are other genres to experiment with, and that I have absolutely nothing to lose in the process (besides my mind, which is already on it’s way).