In the past week, I have read three books. I have been told many times that reading is an essential activity for a writer, and yet I still can't quite convince my conscience that I haven't been wasting my time. Mainly because I enjoy reading and figure that anything I like can't possibly be work.
Not that I don't enjoy writing, obviously (although, let's be honest, that doesn't really feel too much like work either) but there doesn't seem to be a great deal of effort involved in the reading process. Someone else has already done the hard work. All that's left for me to do is sit back and enjoy their story.
Of course, while I'm reading the book I also pick out bits which could be changed. Sentences which might have flowed better if they were reordered. Repetitions of words within a sentence or paragraph. Typos. The usual stuff. I can't help it anymore - things like that just leap out at me, for which I have the MA to thank. I guess this is a good thing, even if it can take you out of the story sometimes.
I have been doing some writing too, still working on those early chapters for book 2. Today a few of the scenes came together, bits were added or filled in, and I hope tomorrow to complete a chapter (although where that one will actually fall, I don't know).
That previous sentence made me think that maybe I ought to be finalising my chapter-plan. But somehow, that doesn't sound as fun. And apparently I'm a five-year-old this week, and won't be paying attention to anything even remotely practical.