One thing about this post and ME being wrong. Admitting I'm wrong doesn't extemporaneously flash credence that I'm a super nice person fitting in the upper quartile of the most undefiled group in the world. (Whew, thank you thesaurus! I knew of these words, but didn't recall the names offhand). Just don't want things getting out of hand. It's bad enough I'm about to make an admission I don't get to often make.
It's rare, very rare, but I do admit when I'm wrong. Two posts ago, 'Do We Become What We Read,' I bore into one side of an argument. A lot of us do this. It's the very reason several posts ago, I argued against writing whole books filled with advice. This is exactly the reason why, or rather it's 'a part' of the reason why I avoid shelling out advice.
To the question 'Do We Become What We Read,' I forgot my most basic perception lesson. My butt stayed firmly planted in a seat facing only one side of the proverbial horse. The proverbial horse is the symbol I use, akin to the white elephant in a room, though with a major difference. Instead of being the symbol we see but try to ignore, the proverbial horse symbolizes what we see directly in front of us, and nothing else. Move around the symbol, get up on top of it, and look beneath it and our perception increases. (Beware... and this is for a later discussion, but as your perception increases, so does the likelihood of catching a bad case of contradiction).
I delved into the question standing in one position. I hadn't surveyed the entire argument. I don't want to think I do this too frequently, though I'm sure I do, taking one large premise (the symbol) and spraying on one small point of view (the small part I see directly in front of me). It happened in that prior post, and I was wrong.
As it came to be, thanks to blogger Kathy (@BooksKidsLike), one of my favorite bloggers who has the proclivity to tutor a seasoned sober mind like mines, she gave me one of them quick spins and swift kicks to get my lazy behind moving around that proverbial horse. It never dawned on me how my own reading habits affected my mold. Well, it has sort of dawned on me. I mean, come on, let's open a few fiction books, and place them beside my work to figure out which book isn't like the rest. It's how I brushed over the discussion, looking at maybe the left rear flank of the proverbial horse. I saw nothing of the underbelly, the rear, not even the mane or head, and I certainly missed the entire right side. I honest to goodness never thought my reading (in any way) mirrored me, incidentally, in the same way believing how what others read affect... let's say... those who believe it's possible to meet and marry a man (or woman) in real life, cut of the same cloth as the hero's (or heroines) they've read and fallen in love with in romance novels.
I don't want to get into more generalizations here, but on a surfacey level I recognize the irony of how my serious, realistic writing (and reading), and way of life, reflects the fablistic fanfare that, to this day, continues to challenge me to embrace.
My girl over there at Mocha Reads just glazed on the icing. Read her comment(s) about how books have inspired her. Absolutely uplifting. Her comment makes this entire argument well worth the recognition. I truly feel empowered to blend this discussion into my future work. So to the Book Blogs forum leader who initiated the question, to Kathy, and to my girl over at Mocha Reads, thank you. I want you to know, however innocent your observations, I'm glad to admit being wrong.