I'd like to say that I only read novels that make me smarter and expand my horizons but that's false information.
I have a sneaky weakness for trashy crime novels, and have for a long time.
Mamasita returned from her vacation with a small stack of the stuff, all gore and gristle and missing Hollywood starlets. What did I do? I started reading immediately.
I read those books like people binge eat, stuff 'em down without really tasting them, reading into the early morning,until I'm queasy and worn, bloodshot eyes darting around the room (and under the bed) looking for villains.
It doesn't make for good sleepies when you read this right before bed. My mind is all fertile-myrtle so I picture the abominations right down to the tiniest details, the smells, the sounds, etc.
Horror movies haven't scared me since I was a tot, I love the stuff, but these books? They get me every time I read one.

I have been trying to get on some sort of schedule for writing for the last couple of months. I have brainstormed my ass off, bought magazine subscriptions and books about the subject (writing that is), done some back story for scripts and even started about a dozen short stories but I CAN'T FINISH A DAMN THING. I don't know how or why I constructed this huge blockage but it's been a worthy and impressive opponent.
I was fairly diligent about writing my Myspace blog but in a fabulous fit of hissy I deleted all of my writings from there. I think that all that nonsense was making me feel self-conscious. I would pour tons of energy and thought into those damn gurglings but they never amounted to anything.