I endeavored to get a lot of writing done today, but I did not. I did some, and what I managed to pen sat happily on the page, but my heart wasn’t into the craft today, probably because the weather turned for the better. I had a desire to wander Plymouth in the sun, especially the hoe, and barbarian, but recently I have been plagued by painful muscle spasms, and I thought better of it. Unable to write and unable to walk too far, I took to the fiction stacks downstairs. Libraries are wonderful places for poverty stricken writers, and poverty stricken readers. After an hour browsing the central library’s vast collection of fiction, I maxed out my loan limit, and that was following a brutal ‘which books do I place back to borrow later’ ritual.
Unfortunately, there are many pieces of essential – in my opinion – reading, the library doesn’t yet stock, either that or many people share my literary tastes and the titles are permanently taken out; I have yet to rummage through the virtual catalog. A list of books I must some day buy is mounting in my notepad. If I enjoy a piece of fiction, I like to invest in the author; it just seems good writing etiquette. The list is mounting; if I ever reach financial security, Waterstone’s will make a mint off me. I feel cheeky pondering the store’s stocks, and goodreads, finding books which take my interest, jotting the name and author in my notebook, and scampering down to the library to check if they have a copy.
Neil Gaiman wrote a blog-post about passing on books here. I’m doing my best to support the authors who impress me, and not take the library for granted. I’m wondering if it’s also possible to donate titles I have bought, but not truly enjoyed to the library.
In a few weeks I will traveling to see my folks, and then onward North to see my sisters. Hopefully, the literature will hold out for the journey. If not, it’s another round through the stacks to fill the train time.