Wednesday, February 3, 2016

I Buy Books Now

I do.

I used to read voraciously, to the point that my Mom was worried about me.  I read so much -so many things!  My world was made up of narratives, the voices in my head sounded like Roald Dahl and Teddy Geisel.  I tore through The Work and The Glory in Junior High, and High School consisted of me browsing bookstores for books I could carry around in my Pepto Pink back pack -books that gave me an essence of awesome, just by holding them.
I couldn't make it through Silas Marner, and couldn't finish 1985, but I wrote smashing critiques about how awful I felt they were.
I memorized slam poetry, giggled through Jane Austen's SPOT ON characterization and tried very hard to pretend like I was dark enough to love "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest."
That didn't get me much but some extra attention from a concerned principal.
I guess it is a compliment to my acting skills that he couldn't see through the facade?

Anyway, somewhere between then and last year, I just quit reading.  The narratives in my head grew quieter and quieter still.  I didn't realize how much I missed them because I wasn't myself.  And anyone who isn't me and isn't accustomed to constant narrative streaming in the background of life WOULDN'T MISS IT.

Maybe it's because I quit reading the right kind of books and started reading sabotaging self-help books.
All it took was a baker's dozen of those to sell me on a life without books forever.  Throwing the baby out with the bath water has always been a favorite trick of mine.

Whatever the reason, my heart or my shoes, I quit reading.  I quit buying books.

I let go of an integral part of my identity.

I didn't realize it.  I realized somewhere along the line that I wasn't buying books, but I didn't realize FULLY what was going on until a few days ago when the voices came back.

The constant narration is BACK, and I can't write enough.  I can't put my keyboard down.  I have books in my hand again -new books, books that I BOUGHT with the money I made at my job!

I'm basically 17 again, sans back pack and cuckoo's nests.

I think the word I'm dancing around here is "restoration."

I'm looking forward to my next paycheck because I've got a few books in my cart.  Isn't it great being a grown up?  I don't have to wait for other kids to finish reading the book I want... I can just BUY it.  The problem I'm running into now as an adult is setting boundaries for STOPPING.

And now that I'm finding and reading all of these great books, I keep giving them away because apparently I assume that everyone isn't reading great books.

But it doesn't matter.  What does matter -what really does matter -is that one of my favorite pieces of me came back this week, and I think there needs to be some sort of ceremonial cake eating.
Or something.

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