“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.” – Ray Bradbury
I am a collector of worthless books. For some unknown, deep-seated, pathological reason, I have the need to hoard large number of books. Most were purchased for a buck or two from used bookstores and will never have a financial value worthy of their shelf space.
Yet, I love them. I read them. I gaze at the spectrum of colors and shapes they produce on my bookshelves. I shamefully smell their crisp, yellowing pages. But, I rarely re-read them.
Certainly, I have books I enjoy, even books I love, but with the sort of memory I have, the idea of wasting time reading a book I have already read seems inefficient and clumsy. The exception has come with two or three particular books. I enjoy them immensely, but my favorite book of all-time is Zen in the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury.
As a reader, I go through spurts of reading a particular writer. One of my Bradbury spurts happened along at the same time I was really learning to write fiction. I’ve read countless tomes on grammar, mechanics, plot and structure. Most were individually forgettable, although I did get some nugget of information from each that will hopefully someday bear fruit.