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I’m having a weird relationship with my books lately. I have many, many books. I had many books before my mom died, and then I got most of hers, and now I have even more. And they’re great books. I call myself a “literary survivalist.” Someday–we all know it will happen someday–when the grid goes down and wifi is no more, I will survive and maybe even my little corner of civilization will survive because of my books. I love–no, I ADORE looking at my books. I love reading and rereading them. I love refering to them and loaning them to meet needs. They are my loved ones, advisors, distractions…my lifelong friends.
But right now, I find myself in need of more clear and open space in my tiny house. So many books (and scripts, screenplays, poems, and songs) live inside my head. So. many. And they clamor. They desperately beg for space in my consciousness and fingers and–lately–shelves. They seem like jealous lovers (though I’ve never had one), not wanting to share even my eyes, let alone my energy. They want me to wipe my house clean of every other person’s written art: books, magazines, audiobooks, TV, even the radio. They want me to cease reading, listening, and watching. They want to flow from my mind pure, with no other influence or impediment.
And yet…I get inspired by everything, everywhere, by all I read, watch, hear, think, breathe, feel. Ideas are like popping corn, all the time, in me. So what might happen if I shun the writing of others to satisfy and nourish the books in my head? Put shelves of books in the garage? Put ALL of them in boxes? (cue panic) Holy crap. What if I actually DID that? I wonder what would happen. I wonder.
p.s. Yes, I’m writing again. More about the pause, and more about the new words, soon. love and hugs, moi
