Sometimes I just don’t know what to say and so I start reading for inspiration. I read all sorts of books, about love and heartbreaks, about fantasies and interesting characters, about happy families and torn ones and they inspire me. They inspire me because they teach me about the many wondrous things that one can do with their words, they can tell stories and tales, they can teach you and make you weep, they can create images in your head that you never fathomed and they can inspire you to want to write like that as well, if not better.
Sometimes when I have nothing to say, I just read. And reading is the only way that I can get an insight into the deepest corners of my mind, into the breadths of my imagination that I had locked away years ago. Reading is the only thing that allows me to feel emotions, to feel the sort of things that I’ve blocked myself from feeling. It makes me come alive and makes me want to imagine things, it makes me want to write about people and places and worlds that only I can think of, and it makes me want to do this in the most creative way possible. Reading inspires me so much that I start to sit down to write something and I just write until I feel content, I write and write and the words suddenly pour out of my mind like a fresh surge of water erupting from an open tap.