I am going to be a Data Capturer

A bibliophile really has no place working in book publishing. I think it's like an animal lover working in a butchery. A book is a product in the world of book publishing. In my world, a book is an icon, in the religious sense. So, watching a book being made is like watching an animal being skinned and then carved up, or an icon being descrated. Even worse, I'm the one with the knife. I say things like "There's no time to make that right so leave it" and "Is it really worth the cost of making that change?"

So, I think I'm going to be a data capturer. I am not sure that this is a valid profession. But there is data, and it needs to be captured, so I'm assuming this is done by some semi-comatose person punching at a keyboard. I can do semi-comatose.

Fiction mocks me

Occasionally, when you work with words, you get to the point where you hate the little (and big, some of them) bastards. They infest every thought, every action, every dream, every moment. Usually they have question marks taped to their backsides and usually they are coated in your own self-doubt. They protest at the doors to sleep, determined to keep you on edge. In return, you pointedly ignore them, like child beggars posing on the other side of your car window.

They are making faces at me from the other side of the window. And I'm making faces back.

I haven't been able to read fiction in more two than two weeks. Unusual since I usually read at least a book a week. Scratch that, I did read some short stories this week. And some news. So, I haven't read any novels in about two weeks. I've started a few and I complained about each of them. It was only when I started complaining about my latest Murikami that I realised things had gone too far.

Instead, I've been reading non-fiction, specifically biographies, personal finance and business books. Also a book about overcoming writer's block. Also some maths, nutrition, architecture... I have a craving to learn everything. I consume words, but in a more obsessive way than when my obsession was trained on fiction. Every moment of every day needs to be devoted to gathering information. I get tired, but then I hit my second, third, fourth wind for the day. I have been working since this morning; yet here I am, scouring my shelves for something else to consume.

It's like finding yourself wanting to adopt an orphanage full of child beggars, who don't speak the same language as you. You want them in your life because you don't understand them. (Which is not a helpful metaphor because sane people do not feel this desire for the other.)

I'm not complaining, but I find this a little sinister. What was the catalyst for this switch? Will I ever return to fiction? Can knowledge replace art and beauty? I suppose this is what I asked for; I complained about the world not living up to the promise of fiction and now here I am, rejecting the Marilyn Monroe beauty for some barefaced Plain Jane.

And, yes, I'm still a little angry.