Since there’s a “No nails in the wall” clause in my sublease at home, I am utilizing my work desk shelves (every cubicle has one) to build a bookworm. At first I thought I would do it just for the summer, but I got carried away with cutting out the circles out of multi-colored cardstock and now I have no choice but to make a never-ending worm, one that in the wild would rival the lifeforms of the tree groves and mushroom patches in the forest. I added three more books to the links this month: “All the Light We Cannot See” by Anthony Doerr, “Life After Life” by Karen Atkinson, and a re-read of “Writing Down the Bones” by Natalie Goldberg. I try to read the Goldberg book every year, and sometimes I succeed. Reading books on writing helps me to keep the pen moving.
Currently I’m almost invested in three books and the articles in The New Yorker, a sad fact that nothing is probably going to light me up for a while after “All the Light We Cannot See.” That book is my favorite of all time, a declaration I have never been able to say before, and a distinction I’m still getting used to. Curse the writer that makes a masterpiece look easy and read easy; now I don’t want to read anything ever again. Still, I’m trying. In addition to The New Yorker I am also trying to read:
- A biography of Flannery O’Connor;
- “The Book of Unknown Americans”
- “Some Luck” by Jane Smiley
Smiley is a full-circle read–I saw her latest in the racks at the Carlsbad library, I met her four years ago at Litquake, and I’m going to Litquake this year. I don’t want to repeat history, but I find joy in seasoning the present with it.
Speaking of writing, I’m steeping in my writing side lately. I’ve found that I am a better person when I do, like remembering to take vitamins and get enough exercise. The average human is obligated to perform several bodily functions to keep from breaking down, and writers can add scribbling to their list. At least, I can add scribbling to my list, or I get crabby and emotionally constipated. (It’s okay if you say the analogy means I produce shit as a default–enough shit produces flowers and fruits on the farm, so I can take the analogy a step further.) Since the weather has been hellish, and I am trying to save for a trip to San Francisco in October, I’ve been staying away from the usual San Diego jaunts and writing at an air-conditioned Starbucks on weekends. So far it’s a lot of organization and sorting, but I’m calmer, and I’ve even got some creativity squeezed in.
Here’s to expanding on that with the timing of the next post. *raises iced coffee in a toast*