Suzie’s House 189: Good Reading

“I’m going to be a writer no matter what you say.” Ben picked up a book, looked at the lurid cover, then dropped it like a lit firecracker.

“Twenty years from now will you blame me for becoming a writer?”

“No. I won’t credit you either.”

“Fair enough.” I grinned at him, then picked up the book he’d dropped. Eloisa James. One I hadn’t read yet. I added it to the cardboard box I’d commandeered for my purchases from the library fund-raiser used book sale. “What If I told you that you would have to write a million words before you were good enough to get published?”

“A million?” He stumbled over the word, apparently trying to talk and swallow his tongue at the same time. Then he cracked a smile. “No. That can’t be right. I’ve only written a few thousand, and I’m already pretty good.”

“I wrote three million before I made my first sale. People told me I was pretty good when I was your age. Looking back, I’d have to say they meant I was pretty good for my age.”

“Oh.” He looked crest fallen. “But you think I’m pretty good.”

“Yes, for your age.” I grinned at him, trying to turn it into a joke, though it was still the truth.

He looked crestfallen.

“It takes a lot of practice. What’s more, all that practice will be a waste of you aren’t trying to be good while you’re doing it. And how will you know if you’re good if you have nothing to compare it to? Writers need to read.”

“But…” He looked at the stacks of books with dismay. “I don’t want to lose my voice.”

“Are you planning to only ever read one author? Or maybe one book over and over?”

“No.” He stretched the word with a considering air, more hesitant than plaintive.

“As long as you mix it up you should be fine. In fact, reading a lot can help you find and hone your voice.”

“Humph.” He shifted his skateboard from one arm to the other.

“So, if you just have to be a writer, really, really have to be one, then I recommend you get busy writing your million words. Meanwhile, you should be reading as much of the kind of books you want to write as you can. This would not be your section, since these are mostly romance novels. Let’s head over here to the…”

“I don’t need to read any children’s books.” He gave the pile I’d been headed for a sneer.

“No Science Fiction?”

“Um… well…”

Come to think of it, his stuff might have fantastic elements, but it wasn’t really Science Fiction, or even really Fantasy. I probably should have guided him to the Young Adult selections, but they were a little too jumbled up, and he probably would resist anyway. I glanced across the table and noticed one I thought might work.

“Here, try this.” I handed him a yellowed copy of Fahrenheit 450. The cover was white with cartoon flames.

“I said no children’s books.”

“Trust me. This isn’t.”

He hefted it dubiously.

“Here’s another you might like.” I handed him Watership Down.

“A bunny? You’re giving me a book about a bunny?”

“Actually, there ware some gruesome scenes in there that might be too much for you.” I tried to take the book back, but he didn’t let go. I grabbed a few more books. After the lucky finds of Fahrenheit 450 and Watership Down the pickings were a bit slim. I found one of the James Herriot books, but it was later in the series. I tossed it in anyway. “I’ll buy these for you. After you read them we can talk about them and what they might have to do with the way you write.” I guided him into the check out before he knew what hit him.

“Um. All right. And next time I’ll bring you something I wrote, too.”

“Good.”

He turned, dropped his skateboard, put one foot on it, then twisted around to look at me. “I promise, it’ll be good. It won’t have farting deities or anything.”

I smiled, and waved at him. I’d teach him to handle writer’s block next. Assuming he made it out of summer still wanting to write.

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