Some people like to read books. I mean so-called proper books like novels, and historical biographies and stuff like that. Even as a child, before the current Age of Horror that I now occupy, I didn’t really read novels that much. Although I once read the first Discworld book in less than a day, and there are several other exceptions.
When I was living in Dundee for Failed Uni Attempt #1, in the several weeks prior to having my laptop, I read two biographies and several novels. Unfortunately it seems that as time has passed by and I’ve gotten older, I’ve simply lost the urge to read.
It’s hard to say why exactly I don’t read more often, it’s not like I don’t have the time, because I often sit for hours with nothing to do. It just seems that the very act of picking up a book doesn’t occur to me at all.
I vowed to read each of the Lord of the Rings volumes before the appropriate film came out. I actually finished The Fellowship of the Ring in the cinema, just before the trailers started. The other two were finished much earlier. Then, again during Failed Uni Attempt #1, I tried to read The Silmarillion, which was utterly utterly boring. I think that put me off for a while.
Then over winter 06/07, I read two Phillip K. Dick novels. I read the second one on a 5 day field trip to London with coursemates from Failed Uni Attempt #2. Since then, I have purchased several further Phillip K. Dick novels, and failed to bother to read them.
Now, I consider myself intelligent, but lately I’ve begun to realise the nature of my intelligence is largely intuitive. I do pursue specific knowledge that interests me, but generally speaking I just muddle around in the dark taking what I know for granted, and once I know just enough to formulate an opinion, then that’s where I usually stop. It’s a combination of arrogance and laziness quite frankly, and it bothers me.
I think the reason for this is that my mind tends towards creation. I gather just enough knowledge to create and then I don’t have the patience or dedication to go any further with it. This is why I have a bunch of musical instruments that I can barely play, why when I read a novel, I find myself wondering why I’m not writing a novel. Believe me, I have tried. Once I have the idea for a novel in my head, the idea already seems complete and writing it is no longer of any interest.
There are some exceptions, where my ideas do reach fruition, but inevitably, they never quite live up to the original idea in my head. And that, I think, comes from my introverted nature, the one that has resulted in the fact that I don’t know any other musicians, any other writers, anyone else to collaborate with really. Hell, I don’t really have many friends these days.
So I sit here, writing these big long rants and doing nothing about it. But (and I have said this many times before) maybe it is time for action. Maybe if there’s something wrong I should change it. Maybe I should learn to play an instrument properly. Maybe I should read a book. Maybe I should make some friends. Maybe I should just get out of the fucking house…