Yes, writing ruined reading but, I’ve since found that I’ve been able to elevate my criteria for selecting reading material so I’m once again reading without too much zoom-out-to-editor-mode.
But, now, when I find myself not attending to my endeavor of learning to write well, I feel guilty. If I let a weekend go by where I fail to add to the current story, this nagging depressive guilt lingers around me in a funk. If I were to sit and watch a pointless TV show — guilt. If I spend way too much time curating anonymole — guilt. Zoning out — guilt. Sleeping — guilt. Breathing — guilt.
Maybe it’s just this particular story that has me stymied. Or I’m in a phase of my development where I’ve made certain progress, yet still have an arduous path before me, so I’m hesitant to write and potentially foul up what I’ve learned and maybe fail at the next step.
Or maybe I just analyze shit too much.
Yeah, that’s probably it. Writing is like exercise: you may, at times, dread the prospect of beginning, but once completed, the world looks much rosier and full of potential.