You Need to Read in Order to Write

When I was in 4th grade and it was career day, I had a vague interest in the life of a poet.  We could sign up for multiple different career sessions throughout the day; six or so.  One of the ones I chose was poet.  I don't remember why--maybe I had gotten an A on a paper once, and it encouraged my young mind that a future in writing had potential.  Maybe it was because I liked to read Shel Silverstein books. 
I walked down the hallway from the photography session and sat in the front row, ready to be taught about writing.  A few minutes later after other children trickling in from entrepreneur sessions that included lectures on successful lemonade stands, and party planning sessions with free clown noses, my fellow nine year olds and I were greeted by an overweight man in a black suit with a white beard.  I remember him holding up some of his chapbooks that he had had published and droning on and on about the importance of diligent diary keeping.  He went on and on.  He went five minutes over his allotted time.  Ten.  Fifteen.  I was squirming in my seat.  I was now five minutes late for my next rotation, and had absolutely no desire to be in the same room as this man for a minute longer.  Someone finally knocked on the door and informed the prestigious poet that his time was up. 
This could turn into a critique of Career Day volunteers and the impact they have on young minds, because from that point until sometime during 7th or 8th grade I found poetry repulsive. 

There is something that I grasped from that horrible poetry session, however.  It's something that's been repeated and encouraged by professors throughout my years at college as an English major.
In order to write well, you must read well.  
I don't know how I always forget this whenever I am going through a dry writing spell, watching reruns of Big Bang Theory on my laptop and eating Christmas cookies.  I'm uninspired, I say. 
Of course you are.  You're watching reruns of Big Bang Theory on your laptop and eating Christmas cookies, for God's sake.  There is nothing remotely creative or inspiring about that. 

If my inspiration well runs dry for long enough, I eventually "turn the leaves of others" (Astrophel and Stella?  I forget.  Maybe Shakespeare) and try to find some inspiration.  It only took one Billy Collins poem, this time,  to remind me how to write and be motivated to write well.  That isn't to say that my blog posts are examples of writing well. 

Every English major needs to find a writer that does that for them. 

Inspiration is handed down through pages of old works. 
After wandering through a sloshy woods--the snow mixing with the dirt underneath in a spring induced slush--I'm tired.  A hand is on my shoulder.  I turn.  Billy Collins?  Alright.  He hands me a thermos and puts a blanket over my shoulders.   
You have snow in your hair, he says.
Isn't it much more romantic that way?  I consider. Dishevelment. 
Don't get me started on the Romantics, he retorts.