I write, therefore I read. At least two or three books a week plus magazines, newspapers and catalogs. When I read, I am somewhere else. (Catalog reading has to stand in the place of physical shopping when someone lives in the country.)
Right now, I’m on the Gold Coast of Long Island. The book is a DeMille’s sequel. It follows a posh lawyer who comes back from London to re-visit his past on the Gold Coast on Long Island.
The book is “The Gate House.” I laugh. Often as I’m reading, I laugh out loud. To me, he’s that funny. It’s the Swedish side. We Swedes may chuckle but we aren’t
programmed genetically to laugh heartily so this is a truly sweet experience.
I’d like to write just like Nelson. He’s a genius. He can go back to his first book called Gold Coast and recreate the past, so smoothly and effortlessly, a complex writing skill that’s admirable and hard to duplicate, that it’s delightful to witness and to acknowledge.
I could be writing the remaining chapters of “The Hired Hand” and not prolonging the agony of my characters who are confronted by a blazing wildland forest fire, but DeMille’s characters are too much fun and speak to me across the pages in ways that I’d never think of saying.
Reading is my addiction. Writing is even better. Circumstances, however, are siphoning off my time and dedication for writing. Not entirely. Yesterday, I did send Lebensborn off to be entered in the Paris Book Festival.
A friend has read a book so powerful that he has hand-written a two-page letter to tell us about it.
I blog. May The Gold Coast and The Gate House tickle your funny bone.