Feeling awfully lethargic today for whatever reason, if there needs to be a better reason than ‘Monday’, I suppose. Still, got the allotted chunk o’ writing done, even if I don’t end up keeping what I wrote. I haven’t done much wholesale deleting yet, which I am taking as a good sign. In fact I don’t hate this project at all, yet, although sometimes towards the end of the day I can sort of feel Statler and Waldorf starting to warm up.
I am also trying to resist the siren call of Other Projects – I said I have ideas for two stories to follow the one I’m currently writing, and a couple of other rough ones as well. I also know if I start flitting around to other ideas, though, this one is dead in the water, so I am trying to stay on task here.
Anyway, I’m also still trying to figure out what to put in blog updates. Here’s something on my reading habits. I’m very sorry.
I have always, as far as I can remember, been a fast reader, and this has generally served me well. I got through school readings quickly and I get to find out how it all works out before too long. I have never minded being done books pretty quickly because I usually re-read them a bunch of times anyway. So reading fast is generally both useful and enjoyable.
There have been a couple of times, though, where there were issues. The first was when I was quite young – I guess about 7 or so. My mother gave me a book to read, and I wish I could remember which it was – some sort of vaguely Western-y mystery for kids, anyway – I remember there was a mountain lion attack. Anyway she brought this book home from the library and told me to come and tell her when I was finished, which I was later that day. At this point the trap sprung – she asked me to tell her about it, I guess to see if I was really reading as quickly as claimed. I rattled off the story, but man, when you have to pass the Mom Test it is not necessarily fun.
The other and more significant occasion was when reading quickly cut off my supply of Hardy Boys mysteries. For several Christmases and birthdays in a row, one of my relatives gave me a Hardy Boys book. I did enjoy them and was building a pretty good collection of them when for whatever reason he asked how long it took me to read one, and I said about an afternoon, which was true. Although I’m not sure why he got pissed and said that if I wasn’t going to spend longer than that there was no point in buying them. So much for the Hardy Boys – I was really quite disappointed.
One other thing I always remember about the Hardy Boys was that period where I was reading that series and my sister was reading Nancy Drew and we would have these arguments about which were better. I don’t remember who it was who broke the news that both series were written by the same person under different names, but that created a brief period of detente where she started reading the Hardy Boys and I read some Nancy Drew. Unfortunately (at least for me) it also made it crystal clear how formulaic both series are – to the point where you could probably swap the character names around and not be able to tell, except I guess that Frank and Joe would be getting rescued by their girlfriends all the time (possibly amusing) – and I think we both moved on to other things pretty soon after.
I also wonder whether the Hardy Boys would be as horrifying, upon a new reading, as the Tom Swift books turned out to be, but that’s a whole other thing.
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