When I was at University I enjoyed the practice of writing about what I had recently read. It is so easy to forget the beautiful thought and criticisms of a book. To me, reading and writing form an endless circular path that I enjoy wandering down. It would be ridiculous to say that books had not been inspirations for the plethora of stories that have wound themselves from my fingertips to physical letters on a page. When words are written they are meant to be read, so why when things are read are is nothing ever written? To me, this breaks the circular path, every novel becomes a singular fleeting moment rather than part of my journey into fiction.
The best books are the ones where I’m lost from my world, escaped into a beautiful fictional reality amongst a story that was literally waiting for me.