This time I have an excuse for the long absence. I am the only person I know that takes seven weeks to move 20 miles. With such a talent as this, how could I interrupt the rhythm of packing, schlepping, unpacking with the written word?
But now the boxes are emptied, as is my list of excuses. Today, while waiting for my clothes at the laundromat (the only downside of the new place), I got back to reading. And realized I love it.
This should be no surprise. I was an English major, after all, and I even got my masters in English Literature. The funny thing is, the time I spent studying literature in school was the one period in my life wherein I read the least. I skimmed, of course, and often began books intensely, taking copious notes for the first half of the book, only to ditch the pencil and flip the pages when I realized the careful, tedious, word-by-word study of each paragraph was not time conducive and my next class/paper/project deadline would preempt my wish for a thorough analysis. I became an avid user of Sparknotes and my literary education suffered.
But now, since I don't have to read, I find myself doing it all the time. Sure, I count listening to audiobooks, but I also read on my Kindle, or on my phone if I don't have my Kindle, and occasionally I even read real, paper books! In the past year, I have read so many affecting, thought-provoking books. Starting a book club with my friends hasn't hurt, either, as all three of us have a knack for picking books we think the others will like.
My favorite books I've read in the past couple of years (pick up any of these and you will be enthralled unless you are cold and heartless and uninteresting):
Unless - Carol Shields
Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
The Pilot's Wife - Anita Shreve
The Beach - Alex Garland
The Elegance of the Hedgehog - Muriel Barbery
Love is a Mix Tape - Rob Sheffield
White Teeth - Zadie Smith
Room - Emma Donoghue
A Prayer for Owen Meany - John Irving
Of course, now that I am no longer assigned to read and respond, I want to discuss these books with my former teachers and professors. I'm just about to read a book recommended to me by my professor a decade ago (shout out to Dr. Woolley, who prefers pen to computer keys and is therefore unlikely to ever read this), and I can hardly wait to read and finish the book in order to discuss it with him, though we haven't talked in years. Where was this zeal or passion when it would have actually contributed to my college career? Instead, years after these people have stopped being paid to listen to my ramblings, I crave their approval.
I don't need this kind of reciprocation from my peers. If I really admired a classmate back in the day, for the most part I've kept in contact, even if only minimally. And while I feel my life is one long episode of Buffy (specifically the episode where Riley comes back with his spectacular life to find Buffy at pretty much the most pathetic period of her life), I don't lose much sleep over whether old friends would still like me. In fact, since I've changed my views dramatically, I'm pretty sure most of my fellow alums would be appalled at the change in me. Doesn't bother me at all. But whether Dr. Woolley or Dr. Laue or Mrs. George think I'm intelligent? For some reason that matters.
And you, my anonymous reader? I care what you think too. Which is pretty much the death knell in my imaginary writing career, since to be able to write bravely, to confront the truth, I need to be able to write dispassionately, to write my truth regardless of how I think it will be received. Guess I'm still working on that.
