Lately writing feels addictive and forced and weighty. Maybe it’s just because most things in my head feel heavy and convoluted so I don’t how exactly how to communicate them. Right now they’re like fragments of not-yet-developed muse in some globbish nascent.
And then there’s that voice lamenting the lack of LIFE LIVED. It’s counting the number of days left, keen drop-outs, creative wanderers. Too little, I’m too damn little, it says. And there’s so many places to be other than my circuitous head but I can’t get out. So I read.
The more of an author’s work I read, the more I grow to understand and see them. The writer, I mean. It’s like slipping on perspective goggles to momentarily view the world from their perspective. As the focus sharpens, you zero in on the writers’ lives dotted with feelings, thoughts, experiences; it forms into a mental collage, glued together by the alphabet, dried by sentiment.
It’s pretty fucking beautiful.
So when I think of Eugenides, I see Detroit, mountains, suburbia and Greece. Harukami, and it’s Japan, missing cats, disappearances and lust. Steinbeck and it’s slow heat, open fields, Salinas Valley. Burroughs and it’s exploitation, oddball psychiatrists, suburban neighborhoods, and mothers who eat wax sandwiches. Worlds, you know. Voices and conversations.
Just to keep track–here’s a list of books I’ve barreled on through the past two weeks (nose buried a million worlds deep):
- Lust and Wonder, Jeffrey Eugenides
- Sputnik Sweetheart, Haruki Murakami
- After The Quake, Haruki Murakami
- The Strange Library, Haruki Murakami
- Shakespeare’s Counselor, Charlaine Harris
- Poems From Homeroom, Kathi Appelt
- The Stranger, Albert Camus
Now at 1AM, I curl up, book in hand. Am currently reading:
- The Wind Up Bird Chronicles, Haruki Marukami (recent obsession)
- For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/When The Rainbow is Enuf
…as memories of other books are tickle-flirt-whisper for me to read and reread:
- The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Diaz
- Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides
- Alice, Christina Henry
So there’s that.