I read and write every day. I mean every one really does. But I do it with an intention that perhaps not everyone does. I read to escape and I write to remember what I am escaping from...
At any given time, I have at least five books on my night stand. Currently, I have:
Greenlights by Matthew McConaughey
Unfuck Your Boundaries by Faith Harper
The Beauty of Living Twice by Sharon Stone
A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki
And a Book of poetry by Mary Oliver
I am reading them all, sometimes in one day.
This tendency of mine goes against my controlled and organized nature. I am kind of a reading slob...literature haphazardly spread around me, picking up whatever strikes my fancy at any given moment. Totally not who I am in almost any other area of my life.
However, reading reminds me how much I love writing. The process others take to put their thoughts down on paper. To let me into their inner realm. I am addicted, for sure. I crave it. I need it. And I run to it, in place of other things that perhaps maybe I used to run towards.
I can think of no better day than one filled with books. Reading next to a pool, the ocean, on the side of a mountain lying in the grass. Wherever I go, it is made better by a book.
I am writing my own. Have been for twenty years. I am terrified. So in awe of others ability to put it out there. I procrastinate. Yet another way that books show up in my life wholly taking their leave of my usual tendencies and manner. I am a do’er by nature. I do not wait. I do not put off. I do. So the fact that I have allowed this book thing to languish for twenty fucking years is a bit of a mar on my otherwise stellar get shit done reputation.
To be clear, I am afraid. I am so worried about allowing you to see that much within my mind. To open myself up to your criticism or perhaps even pity. To really throw myself into my life, the purpose of which, at least on some level, is to write this fucking book. I remain steadfastedly in my way. Unable to dislodge myself long enough to commit to a timely trajectory.
Reading helps me see other author’s courage. Their effort and success to get out of one’s way. I am in awe in every page I turn. I see their courage, bravery and ultimate fuck you to insecurity. I am inspired.
This weekend my only real plan is to lie in the sun somewhere and soak in the warmth and gaze into one of the many books I am reading. And once I finish one, to begin my immediate search for another. I long for a partner who would like to spend languishing Sundays lost in used bookstores, drinking coffee while lying in a hammock in the shade. For now, I seek these places on my own. A kind of respite from the hustle and bustle. An escape for sure.
Today is Friday and I am rapt with excitement over all the nothing I have planned. Each weekend bearing testament that the most important place I will go this weekend is my own backyard. The most important thing I will do is to lie in the sun book in hand. Reading is living for me as much as writing is. It is a passion that takes me far away from the life I lead today. It releases me from me and delivers me onto distant shores of lives that I can only dare to dream.
I love the perfect combination of reading and writing. It defines me. It holds me in good stead with my own internal thoughts. I’m delivered to a place where I meet myself, challenge my inner world and find a way to reach out beyond it despite all of my insecurity because I have read how others have done it. I have seen the way they make their mark. I see the fear lined pages and the release provided by having the courage to say the thing, to write it down and release it upon the world. And I am grateful for my lonely childhood, where I spent many hours, alone, lying in the sun, book in hand and realize that I am still that kid, awkward in her connection with others. Relating so much better through the written word, if only to myself.
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