I get many requests from authors to read and review their books. I have said no to everyone.
Yes, I have promoted some authors and still share some of their books. No I have not read them and nowhere do I say I have. I promote books mainly from bloggers I know and want to help. As I begin to write my own story I have taken a step back from promoting anymore authors. I will complete the few I am still doing and then focus on my words.
I don’t read many new books. I have what some might call a disease… others might call a qwerk, where I reread the same books. I don’t merely reread a book a few times either, I have many books I have read thousands of times. Some in the tens of thousands…
I don’t branch out and I don’t read new authors. My list is set. If your name isn’t Voltaire, Jordan, Feist, Griffin, Dumas, or one of the few others on my list… I haven’t read your book. I probably never will.
I am a creature of habit and I love my comfort. Nothing is more uncomfortable than being disappointed with your decision. Because of this fact I will automatically order the same meal at every restaurant we go to because I know for a fact it will taste like it should taste. I will then know the level of satisfaction I should gain. Some might call this OCD, but I know what OCD is… and this isn’t really obsessive compulsion. This is learned compulsion and that is different. It is something that can be broken if the will is present. It all depends on the situation for me.
When I was in grade school I developed, or rather allowed to develop, a habit of checking my backpack to ensure my homework was inside. It became a common routine for me to get out of bed and recheck the bag to make sure the papers hadn’t somehow flown out… even when I zipped it and zipped it again. This is what I mean by a learned compulsion. I was too young to realize I was allowing myself to entertain and even learn this compulsive need. It wasn’t till later on in life that I learned just what it all meant.
It happened on a day when I was leaving to go to class at the University of Tennessee. I was heading out the door and jumped into my 1996 Civic EX. I was fast and the furious down the parking lot before it hit me… had I locked the door? I was sure I had… but was I sure? Was it worth checking again?
I turned around.
I rechecked and yes it was locked. I breathed a sigh, cursed at a squirrel, and got back in my car. The next day the same thing happened. I forgot again if I had locked the door and the anxiety of not knowing hit me. I let the anxiety wash over me and then I beat it down with a stick. I told my anxiety to shut the hell up! I know I locked that fucking door! Stop bugging me! That was how I beat that compulsion before it became obsessive.
What does that have to do with reading your books? Not much really. Actually… a good deal, but it probably won’t make sense to most people. I am ok with that. I won’t obsess over it…
Jason Chandler Cushman
I have been writing pain. It is exhausting to write things you want to forget about. It is tiresome to relive the moments you simply want to disappear.
I feel like I have been peeling my flesh off and placing it in a word document. It is a slow process because like an Olympic sprinter I feel worn out after only a page of writing. It isn’t the length, amount of words, or even the act of writing… it is what I am writing about. It is gathering all these emotions and feelings I’ve spread across countless blog posts and trying to corral them into a singular writing. It is a daunting task and I have caught myself already wondering if I have bitten off too much. We will see what comes. We will see if I can write through the pain.