Wherein I finally read, instead of write.

I know this sounds sort of...off for a writer. Arguably, writing should always come before reading, right? I mean, writers write. They read, too, but they primarily write. It's what they do.

Lately though, I've been reading a whole lot and not writing at all. I blame school for this. There's been an abundant amount of homework lately to prepare us for our finals, I suppose, and a bunch of activities to fit in before winter break. Plus, the snow. Oh, snow. I hate it. Sure, it gives me an excuse to drink hot chocolate, but snow comes along with colds (which I've gotten twice, one after the other in the time span of only two weeks), and shivers, and a bunch of coats and what-not that makes me look like a burnt marshmallow, and my hair all crazy with static.

All I've wanted to do was curl up with a book, Iron Chef America playing on the TV, and drink my hot chocolate. I suppose I could curl up with a laptop, too, but still.

Except winter has always been my best writing time. I don't really know how to describe it; sort of like the smell and the air and the whole atmosphere--it helps me concentrate and just...write. Not read well, but write well. I've often made more progress in my WIPs than my books. But, you know, I love reading, and I've been craving a lot of Meg Cabot lately for some reason. Reading always spurs inspiration for writing, anyway.

I guess what I'm trying to do is make up petty excuses. No, there really is no true excuse for me to skip out on writing. I've made little progress with revising Depravity, or writing Incandescent, or planning out Book 3. Which is just really sad.

- E