I find a lot of writers’ writing boring, and a lot of books boring. Most of them that I run across. If not boring, then sub-par. Maybe I’m just too critical, but if I’m going to invest a few hours reading a book, I absolutely must be enjoying myself in some way. If I’m not either relating to the author’s words or in awe of the author’s style and sentence structure, my thoughts drift and drift. Either to lots of completely unrelated places, if I’m lucky, or lingering in annoyance at how lackluster or contrived or graceless the text before me happens to be, in my eyes, at least. I fall in love with things (and people) that I find especially interesting. Writing and books that word what we normally think of as unwordable, even or especially about the most mundane objects and occurrences. Writing that creates something I’ve never seen before or paints something I’m used to seeing in an entirely different tint. Writing that etches beauty using unlikely tools, or from unlikely materials. It’s hard to define what makes something interesting, as uniqueness is often embodied by what we’ve never seen or imagined before. It’s a difficult craving to sate, because we tend to find it, or it tends to find us, when we least expect it. But so amazing when found. I derive an absolutely orgasmic experience from it. When I find it, it creeps into my lungs and I breathe it in and out for God knows how long. It burns my eyes, though I can never seem to look away. It enters my pussy, and rides rhythmically in and out until I just can’t take or process anymore for the night. I open most books and start to read, and they just don’t do it for me. They don’t even hold my attention. When this happens a few times in a row, as it inevitably does time and time again, I just end up feeling so…unsatisfied.
Last updated September 04, 2015