A Severe Sense of Guilt
Every once in a while, I’m reminded of something that makes me feel absurdly guilty; I do not read as widely as I always intend to. Why this makes me feel guilty is a complicated subject, but I think it’s worth a look.
I feel guilty because when I was younger, I was a great reader. I read new books like they would be stolen from me, I scoured the library shelves searching for new worlds and places to lose myself.
I grew, and I still read, but the effort to get into a new book stopped feeling worth it for most things, and I began to become a serial re-reader. My last 20 books or so have been rereads. I’m currently halfway through a new book, but it’s in no way a new author.
Now, I’m looking back on my library and thinking, Man, that’s a lot of dudes. That’s a lot of white dudes. And I feel guilty. Shouldn’t I, a woman who wants to write good fiction, and maybe some nonfiction, have a wider base upon which I sit? Won’t I stand tall on the backs of giants if I have more giants to stand on?
These are just musings with no real conclusion except that maybe, just maybe, I need to put more effort into my reading, and find new worlds again.