Words. Books. I have chosen to fill my days with these very substances. At this point in my life I am either writing a book, reading a book, reviewing a book that I have read, thinking about the next book I want to write and so on and so forth. I was an avid reader in High School. I found novels more interesting than anything I have ever learned in any classroom. Even as a lover of history, I would rather learn on my own terms, at my own pace and my own chosen time period. I wouldn’t call me controlling though. I would however say I would rather choose my time wisely doing what I want to do. Not to mention, I didn’t like my history teacher back then.
I am almost finished my latest book, writing and reading, which I won’t say since I am going to be publishing a review soon. I have nine pages left in the book I am currently reading and I put it down mid chapter just to type this up. I can honestly say that I am sad. This particular book has been more than just “a good book off the shelf.” I would categorize it as the most important book I have ever read. It isn’t fiction. It is real. I have never felt so understood by another person that doesn’t even know I exist. I feel as though I could write 100 reviews on this one book, and still have more to say on the various subjects it covers. It feels as though I am losing a friend. This is one of those books that when I could be doing something else I would choose to revisit like sitting down for tea and catching up on old times. It may seem odd that an object simply filled with 395 pages written by a person I have never met could have such a profound effect on me. Well, I never that I wasn’t “odd” in the first place.
For a while I went on a long hiatus of reading books. Years. I kept a lovely collection of them stacked in a tall mahogany bookshelf that I faithfully put together myself. Every now and again I would walk by and greet them formally with my duster. Removing the tiny particles that have accumulated as time went on. I always maintained my respect for them. I wasn’t making time to indulge for I knew that if I did, I would ignore many of the important things that needed to get done at that time. I could not get lost in anyone else’s story. I could not meet anymore characters. I could no longer place myself in pages of another person’s book. Not until I took the time to write my own. It was something I had always wanted to do and knew I needed to do for my own sake. The stories and ideas kept piling and piling until one day in front a nice new laptop that I purposely bought because it was silver (this could be the beginning and the end of my shallowness) my creativity burst onto the screen. I wrote four books total before I had the thought to read anyone else’s. Do I continue to write? Of course! Just because I happen to be four books in doesn’t mean I don’t have plan for 10 more! But, with my own words stretched out in Garamond and Times New Roman fonts and nearly 220,000 words of my own, I can breathe.
Meanwhile, I need to finish the book I am currently reading. It is time to end and move on to another. I have a stack of unread, ready and waiting just for me to look beyond the cover, turn the past the copyright page and indulge. This one however is special and perhaps they all will be. When I get to them.