About a year ago I decided that if I thought I wanted to write fiction that I had to take it seriously – give it a real shot. That meant writing every day if possible, keeping track of my words, and submitting stories – which meant actually finishing them.

There was a major mistake in my plan. Like others, I have a day job and plenty of other time siphons. I was okay with that, I just had to give up some of the things I liked to do to make this a priority. It sounds good, and I did it. I was disciplined. I finished stories and went to writerly events. I even read books about writing. I had no idea how wrong I was.

Reading was my favorite self-indulgent past time since I can remember. As a kid it was a guilty pleasure. I hid in closets and bathrooms and snuck books out of the house under my shirt when my mom made me ‘go out any play.’ It was anti-social behavior for sure, which was just fine for an introvert. I was encouraged to read, but it was always in place of watching TV or other less important things.

I was so serious about writing, that I gave up reading fiction. Reading and loving fiction is the reason I wanted to write in the first place. What was I thinking! I’m back to the reading board. If I can’t make time to read, I don’t have time to write.

Photo by Rachel Sian