A life in books
I love watching the bookmark slowly progress deeper into the book. Turning page after page feels like I’m doing something right. Something that was meant for me.
It’s a similar feeling when I’m writing. I love watching the word count climb higher and higher. The satisfaction of hitting milestone numbers: 5,000, 10,000, 15,000, 20,000… It just feels right. It’s exciting. My own personal mini game! Can she get to 35,000 today?! Let’s see!
Even from when I was a little girl, I knew my life would be books. Well, I had a hunch. I didn’t realise just how much, though. That I would attach my fate, my worth, to the amount of books I’ve read in a month and the word count on my document that week. It’s not always healthy, but it motivates me. Gives me purpose.
The problem is I’ve attached my identity to it. I am a writer. I am a reader. It’s not something I do; it’s something I am. That’s the dangerous part; for if you’re struggling to do something, and it’s part of who you think you are, you suddenly don’t feel like you anymore.
It’s a tightrope walk.
The thing is, I pour parts of myself into my stories. The things I’m scared to say in any other way. The things I know to be true. The things that hurt. That things that frustrate me. What happens then when I finish a project and it doesn’t feel good? Or I put it out into the world and it isn’t received well? That hurts. It feels like a personal rejection. And when I read a good book, I feel like it’s someone pouring back into me. Saying, this is what I see as true; what I see as hurt; what I see as frustrating. It’s a conversation. An exchange. Cyclical.
When something is that special, should we even monetise it? Make it into a business? Make it serious and heavy? When you want something to last a lifetime, should you even force and track it, like I do my reading? It brings this desperation to the process. A desperation to this beautiful, precious thing that once just fuelled you. Now, it also drains you.
Maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s how life goes. There’s a difference between a hobbyist and a professional. I chose long ago to be an author, so I’ve made my bed, and I must deal with it. But my reading should remain a hobby, no? Or is reading and writing so intertwined that they can never be separated? So reading will never feel like just a hobby to me.
“Reading is breathing in, writing is breathing out. “
All I want in my life – at least, all I know for sure – is a life marked in books. A colourful bookshelf of enormity. A library ladder to get to the top! One that curves into every crevice of a space. And I want to say that I’ve actually read most of them! This one and that one is my favourite. Of course, I want my own books to be there, too. The spines to read my name, immortalising my life. My work. My mind, though flawed. I want people to read my work and think, “yeah, me too”. I want them to feel something, and be in it with me.
I want my life’s passions marked out in paper and letters and ink.
Sincerely
S. xx
