It’s been over a week since I posted – so much for getting back in the regular blogging habit. Sigh. My excuse this time? (reaches into the hat full of excuses in the old noggin and pulls out…) Faulkner. I know my writing style and talent level are both most appropriately categorized as “epistolary” – as in I can write a damn fine letter to a friend, but that’s about it. So when I spent a few weeks savoring Light in August by William Faulkner, it kind of put off me wanting to write anything. Sometimes when I read something with a distinctive voice or style, it makes the little voice in my head try to emulate that with my own writing. Just like when I’m talking with someone with a strong accent, the little voice in my head sometimes makes my real voice slip into a (usually poor) bit of an accent. But Faulkner? Just makes me want to keep reading and never write/type a word again. Fortunately for y’all, I’m now a book or two removed from Faulkner, so I have included many periods in this paragraph. I firmly believe that you have to be a reader before you can be a writer, but I think it’s a special talent to be a reader and a writer at the same time; to be so true to your own work that you aren’t constantly pulled in different directions by the things you are reading.