For a writer, there are three kinds of books in this world:
Books that are so incredibly good that when you are finished reading them, you have to throw it down in disgust because there is absolutely no way in the world you will ever be able to write anything nearly as good
Books that are so incredibly bad that when you have gotten as far as you can stomach, you have to throw it down in disgust, knowing with utter certainty that anything you write will be better than that drivel
Books that seem to be meant just for you, at this place, at this time in your life, such that while you are reading, every other sentence makes your fingers tingle, itching to start writing because the book is so inspiring and fills your head full-to-bursting with ideas. These are the books that, when you are finished, you bring with you to your desk and waiting computer, setting it beside you as a reminder of all the amazing things you can – and will – do with those twitchy fingers. These third books are incredibly rare and so exciting once found. Like lightening in a bottle, just holding it will electrify you, sending energy pulsing through your fingertips. And the only cure – besides more cowbell – is a keyboard. Or a pen and paper. Something, anything, that will allow the words racing through your mind to be released into the world.