As if people were proud of being intellectually incurious

During my longtime stint as a member and board member of a national publishing association, there was an old joke people on the inside used to make.

We’re the only association whose members have written more books than they’ve read.

Everyone always laughed the first time they heard this line, probably because it was true.

But to me, it wasn’t funny, it was embarrassing. As if people were proud of being intellectually incurious. Like they were getting away with something by writing more books than they read.

To me, that’s a fundamental career mistake.

Imagine meeting a chef who claimed she didn’t like food. Would you even want to eat at that restaurant? What kind of artist can you claim to be if you’re not inhaling and exhaling with relative measure?

Personally, books are a part of my diet. They’re the biggest source of intellectual fuel in my life, consumed on a daily basis with as much regularity as food and water.

That’s why there is no limit on my budget for them. Books are what make being a writer possible for me, and writing is what makes being a human possible for me.

Not articles, websites, stories, poems or essays, but books.

Which, in my experience, are far more valuable than any other form of writing.

They’re not free, which means people put a higher value on the content. They’re exhaustive, since authors pour years into the research and production of their manuscript. And in most cases, the only reason those books exist in tangible form is because somebody somewhere believed in that author and gave them a platform to share their ideas.

Books are the building blocks of my knowledge. They trap me into doing my own thinking. Reading is what allows me to bootstrap my way to new knowledge in areas that support my goals. Books are like old friends that make loneliness evaporate.

And some of my favorite titles, I’ve read five and ten times each. Taking new and different notes each time.

How many books did you read last year?

Seneca wrote about the sense of intellectual curiosity in his book of letters to a stoic:

We should follow the example of the bees, who flit about and cull the flowers that are suitable for producing honey, and then arrange and assort in their cells all that they have brought in.

He said to copy these bees, and sift whatever we have gathered from a varied course of reading, for such things are better preserved if they are kept separate. Then, by applying the supervising care with which our nature has endowed us, in other words, our natural gifts, we should so blend those several flavors into one delicious compound that, even though it betrays its origin, yet it nevertheless is clearly a different thing from that whence it came.

It’s amazing, millions of people around the world struggle trying to find inspiration on a daily basis, and in many cases, all they would have to do is crack open a book for fifteen minutes.

That would be enough fuel to allow the subconscious to process. That’s something all prolific creators have in common.

Instead of waiting on inspiration, they work on discipline.

If they’re having trouble exhaling, they can usually trace it back to not having inhaled enough.

Which book could be a lightning rod for your brain right now?