ah...the smell of thoughts

There is something inherently fabulous about books. Am I the only one who would lop off a baby toe to spend the rest of my life in a library with a butler/librarian and the oldest leather chair known to mankind?


Probably.




But the fact remains...books enchant me. They have since I was a child, teaching my brother to read Cookie Monster and the Cookie Tree. And as I grew older and have gotten lost in the worlds of Alexandre Dumas, Shakespeare and their immortal brethren and sistern...(not to be confused with a c-i-s-t-e-r-n...) as well as some of their not-so-immortal heirs, I've learned to love the absolute power of words. And why shouldn't they be powerful? "I love you" in the right moment from the right person can make the universe seem infintely narrowed into that moment, likewise, "I hate you" at the most horrible moment by the right person can make the universe seem to expand, threatening to rip the fabric of your fragile soul right out of existence.




Hm. It would appear that I have rambled a bit. Ah well, I will shrug off that condescending voice and move on (or back to) my original point. I am an author's dream...and a bookstore's nightmare. I devour words and stories like some people say you are supposed to drink a fine wine: with an exquisiteness and precision. I savor the tastes and flavors of a book like a proper oenophile would do. (Consider that the vocabulary-enriching portion of this blog. Now you can throw in a word while you are grocery shopping and that woman in the produce section keeps ruining all the tomatoes by squeezing too hard...or not.)


Argh. Back to the books.




Recently I have read a few rather excellent books. Here is the official recommendation: The Shack by William Young was one of the best books I have read in recent memory, on a whole different realm are the Anne Bishop novels concerning the Black Jewels, and having thoroughly enjoyed Patrick Rothfuss' The Name of The Wind....I am anxiously awaiting The Wise Man's Fear with bated breath.




I think that's all for now...back to my treasure trove from the library.




PS: Be good to your local librarians. They are the reason all our children are not complete philistines.

That's LIFE Charlie Brown!

I feel like I have Charlie Brown moments all the time. It never fails that I am so determined to succeed and the football, whatever elusive goal that may be, seems to be pulled right out from under me.

Of course, if I am being completely honest (we know how writers like to exaggerate...it makes us more interesting)...maybe I miss the football not because Lucy, or circumstance, yanks it from out of my deserving feet, but because I did not really want the football.

WHAT IF CHARLIE BROWN DOES NOT GET THE FOOTBALL BECAUSE DEEP DOWN HE REALLY DOESN'T WANT IT?!

What does that mean for me? Simply this: like dear old Chuck, I can project every appearance of wanting my football. I lean back, get proper perspective, steel myself to impact and take off at a running start to get the best advantage. But when the time to connect my foot with that bit of pigskin...there is a complete failure.

As my father likes to say, "I think there was a failure to communicate!"

If I do not communicate to circumstance that I want my football...how can I expect to get it? Charlie Brown always blames Lucy for being Lucy. She knows that Charlie Brown looks like he wants the football. She even knows that he tries to kick it. But her greatest joy in life, besides psychoanalyzing the willing for five cents, is luring Chuck in and devastating him. It makes me wonder, when Lucy is looking at Charlie Brown lying on the grass, is she really sorry? Or is yanking back the football her way of saying "Trust me Chuck. You didn't really want this. And when you do, you'll let me know."

Fine. I suppose it's not enough to say that I want everything (I'm 22 and a romantic, sue me).

Here is what I want:

A job that I won't hate

Time for myself: my words, my music, and knitting my blanket in the summer

To be better understood.

HEAR THAT LUCY?

Now. To go get my football back from that brunette trickster in the blue dress.