One of the reasons for my reading vacation was to refill my brain with stuff that I will, eventually, use to write. Letting new water seep into the well, as it were. Eventually, I will write again, and I don’t want to have to dig that writing out of the dry and cracked ground of my brain with a pickaxe.
(Another reason was that if I didn’t get some hermit-time, I was going to start banging people over the head with whatever I had to hand if they so much as looked at me funny, which tells you something about me and reading.)
I read a lot of books during that week, and skimmed through some that I didn’t feel like reading in their entirety, and I tried not to think too much about writing. I did write, on Friday–I had an idea, or part of one, that I burned to put on paper, so I allowed myself to do that, but I didn’t finish the short story I began, I only wrote until I came to a logical stopping point. (I didn’t finish the story yet, anyway).
But back to the reading. A large portion of what I read were books from series that I had followed for years, one of them even before it was sold. I realized what I cared about, far more than the ongoing plot, was the characters. They’d appeared in more than one book, so I had a better acquaintance with them than characters who only appear in a single novel. Sometimes it only takes one book to love a character, but there are other things you can do with them when they appear over and over. I am thinking about that now. Not very hard. But it’s in my backbrain.
I already knew I loved character-driven novels and series even more. It seems a silly thing to need to be reminded of. But I think I did need to be reminded. Now I’m thinking about why I like series so much.