He was surrounded by books of every type. Waiting patiently for him to finish one then select his next foray into escapism.
That’s the beauty of books, there doesn’t seem to be any end of them, and each one the product of a talent far greater than his own.
He read with great passion, exploring worlds separate from his own, marvelling at the imagination of authors who took him into the minds of criminals, to people living in towns or cities and coping with the everyday turmoil of life.
There didn’t seem to be a topic that wasn’t explored in one way or another. The loneliness of people, the violence of domestic situations which sometimes ended in a pleasing resolution and sometimes the writer allowed him to travel over a cliff and see the utter futility of the actions of one over another.
He was particularly drawn to local authors for no other reason than feeling he wanted to support local writers who were going about the business of providing him with entertainment. Apart from that many were excellent writers and he would have loved to write a book of his own, but he had come to understand he had the attention span of a goldfish meaning he could only concentrate of a topic for a limited amount of time before his mind wandered to something else and he grew tired of the topic he was at that time writing. Five hundred words and he was done though there had been times when he’d explored a subject for longer than he might normally do so.
As he aged, he grew content to read the works of others and let his own writing reflect their writing, after all, playing with words was in his mind such a fun thing to do. He wasn’t into copying the writings he read but rather to see if he could adopt one or two of their methods into his own writing. He’d certainly done it with some characters he repeatedly wrote, and that was fun.
So he looked over at his growing library and wondered which of the growing list of unread volumes he might be drawn to next.