Broad Strokes

There are few good memories of my father before the time I turned eight. Most of what I can remember is his face, brows furrowed with disapproval and lips pursed, two signs which invariably mean that, in public, I have done something intolerable and that later, in private, I will find out just how badly I'd performed. In my head, he seemed always to be yelling. Whether or not that's true, it's hard to say, of course, what with the mind deciding that the past ought to be looked upon as broad strokes.

• Just as Picasso's nudes solicit an immediate response of adoration or repudiation, any event or person dated further back than five years is instantly assigned as mostly good or mostly bad.
• Anything above ten becomes cemented as eternally evil or untouchably pristine.
• Sure, those initially turned off to a piece can sit and study and pluck out instances of genius or beauty, but the initial judgment remains and is usually always part of the description of one's opinion: "At first I thought it reprehensible, until I noticed ...blah blah blah."
• Even those that continue to offer trite condolescences such as "Everything happens for a reason" (yes, even those sad few that own a poster or mug stating the same or similar sentiments) have made some sort of judgment in their head about everything and everybody they've encountered.

I've discovered that how and what I write are usually dependent on the book or author that I'm currently reading. If the path to being a good writer is to read, how can I be sure that I'm writing what I want to write and not what I like to read?