I took alot of pictures in new orleans, but I couldn't manage to write a single thing. The poem I was working with was cheesey... the poetic equivalent of the overrated lyrics that they play on the radio. *Cough* Taylor Swift. *Cough*.

I didn't say that.

Anyway. I feel like I've changed alot since... what was the first set of lyrics I posted here? The one about the movie- the girl... the checkered table cloths. Yeah. That one. I don't know. That kind of stuff. Chorus-heavy pop with indulgent little piano riffs that I don't play, but just piece together in my brain... that stuff just doesn't feel right.

It makes me want to read. And good stuff too. I'm sick of Stephanie Meyer and The Sisterhood of The Traveling Pants- and even more sick of everyone shedding tears over it's catchy lines and too-typical charachters. I want to read something real. I want to read something so real it crawls inside my bones and follows me around for a month.

Like Freaky Green Eyes. That was 2 years ago, and it's still on my mind. All the time.

This will seem irrelevant at first, but bear with me, I'm going somewhere with this. A couple of days ago, I went to the CD section in the library and picked out alot of new stuff. Stuff with acoustic guitars folky lines whispered into dusty four-tracks. Good stuff. I guess I can't deny that this little entertainment-revalation is all Ryan Ross's fault. But it's nice. The same way Yellowcard showed me arching melodies and swallow-the-sun orchestration, Panic is showing me words. I'm not sure where this is going yet- I think I'm alright with that.

I guess the point I'm trying to make is that-
A. I've alays needed books the same way I need music. The only difference is that music and I don't collaborate so well when it comes to building a creative product. I guess I want the same sort of eye-opening experience that Tom Wait's Dead And Lonely had for me musically, but in a book.
B. Going alont those same lines- It's becoming all-too-apparent that I'm never going to grow as a writer until I grow as a reader. And I'm thinking that means I've got to give up the tweedy teen fiction books that seem to gain more praise than the classics. The ones I've been reading all-too-much of. The ones that stare at me from the library shelves begging for me to pick them up by the page numbers so i can tear apart (in a good way). But I won't, and when I was there this morning, I didn't. I stuck myself firmly inbetween the "P" and "Q" aisles and stared at the eternally smudged plastic-protected bindings that framed a multitude of novels. Some of which could be considered real- yes, *real* stories. But, somewhere inbetween glancing hopelessly at the 'teen' section to my right and the desks to my left, I realized I had no idea where to start. So I picked up another Palahniuk and marched half-heartedly to the check out.

And that is my story. I wish I had a better one to tell. But if you know a good book, you better let me know right now. HELP!
haha