The other day, I went to town. I mean this in an actual as well as figurative sense.
Whenever I leave my beloved mountain village to go to the Big Smoke, I like to indulge myself just a little.
My favourite haunt is a famous book shop with a whole section devoted to books on writing. (It also has a great cafe with booths that feel as though you are in a private room.)
The last thing I need is another book on writing — I have about 50 already —but there’s no harm in drooling over them, surely.
Such as this one like a bumper colouring book only with writing prompts and exercises. Or
which is an appealing idea but I’m not sure I am committed enough. Then there’s
which opens with the idea that to write is a verb. It requires action. This makes sense.
To collect is another verb. I collect books about writing.
To browse is another verb. You see where I’m going with this, don’t you?
Collecting books about writing doesn’t make me a writer. It just makes me a collector.
If I want to be a writer, I must write.
Sigh. It’s so simple really.
By the way, I didn’t buy any of the above but it’s good to have a wish list prepared, in case anyone asks.
What writing books are on your wish list?