Here’s the order I do things: I read and then I write.
I wake up every morning, brew a pot of coffee. Do my sit-ups. Weigh myself. Then, I read. As I’m reading, I jot down notes (in pencil) of super cool ideas. Then, I only write when something I read is amazing…when the writer knocks the top of my head off with a flying roundhouse kick.
I write on the computer for a full single-spaced page, usually. Then, I’m back to reading.
I feel like a cheater. Why? Because I think of myself as a swimmer but not the lead guy—one of those guys in second or third or fourth place—riding the wake of a Michael Phelps. Does Michael Phelps ride anyone else’s wake? If I was a bona fide genius, shouldn’t I just wake up with the story-lines fully-formed in my head?
Right now, I’m swimming in the wake of Robert Crais. God, the man is a genius. Short lines. Terse dialog. But there’s so much character packed into these little lines. He’s a funny guy. Lullaby Town: highly recommended. New York Times Bestseller.
I know that a writer is super-amazing if I look them up on the internet…just to see what they look like. (Crais: handsome, fiftyish, rugged with a passing, round-faced resemblance to Robert Deniro) They’re good, also, if I want to write like them. I try not to do this. This will take me off my game. Anyway, it’s impossible. I write long sentences. Crais, short.
Should I feel like a hack that I can only write if I read? Does this make me second-rate? Or am I Ryan Lochte, swimming in Michael Phelps’s wake—biding my time, building my strength? I got my eye on you, Robert.