two days ago...
I finished a book the other day. I knew I would find reviews on GR where people talked about how unlikable the characters were. Even though the title of the book was literally Bad Summer People*.
The thing is. I'm not reading for enjoyment or to make friends. I read to escape, to live more than one life. I always have, but now it is the tether keeping me somewhat grounded to the world. Or out of it. This metaphor isn't really going anywhere. I read because simultaneously it is the thing that keeps me going, and also the thing that connects me the most to you. I have never met anyone who loved, truly fucking loved, books as much as you do.
Yeah, present tense. What're you gonna do? Remind me my sister is dead? Shocker, I already know that. It's one of the reasons I read. Because as long as I'm reading there is a very small part of that forgets you are gone, and that you won't there when I set the book down.
And now I can read at work FOR work, which is great, so I'm letting in more things like YA books (quick reads) and nonfiction (hopefully? we'll see? I love to read nonfiction in theory) and just more stories, gathering them into my clutches like a little dragon sitting on a little book hoard.
I need to write my own stuff. I know that. I do. And part of me, some submerged languishing in a deep swamp, part still cares about doing that. But the swamp is really murky most days, and there is little point after all, because you won't be there to read anything I write.
I know there are people who can create art and stories throughout the most terrible times. I wish I were one of them. I wish I could write a book and everyone would say 'isn't it incredible she can do this even though her heart is devastated beyond belief? isn't it good she can can channel that grief into something more?'
I mean, yeah, that would be nice.
But I can't.
So there you go.
What're you gonna do about it, come back and haunt me?
I dare you.
(* It was good by the way. The people were people.)