>It is still in the chaos of absolute nothing-ness that I find myself sitting in a Borders and reading one of their books that I have not purchased, and I do not plan on purchasing, drinking a cup of coffee and enjoying the silence of their coffee shop. Though, I have had better coffee. My unpurchased book and I share a world together for about two hours and I finish in order to go home to a dinner. I return the next day to finish the same unpurchased book. I find it in its place and begin where I left off.
The Fates Will Find Their Way truly was a great novel. Quite raunchy at some parts, but great writing nonetheless. The review I did read on the novel revealed its similarity to The Virgin Suicides, which now ignites my curiosity of this novel. However, I have already started the 700 page The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb… but it seems to be losing me in the first one hundred pages. I read his two other novels, which were strange, yet nice, so I suppose I can’t give up on him too soon.
As one can see, my “free” time (which is all the time at this point) is wrapped warmly into novels that take me to other worlds and charge the battery of my imagination. Great novels give my mind something new to think about, and it refreshes me. The novel, if written well, makes me think in metaphors and makes me articulate my words and sentences even better. It is the strangest of things. I begin to look at clouds and make up stories of how the weather man lied and now we are sitting here with clouds that tease their audience.
What the heck is wrong with me? I’m not Mary Shelley. But maybe there are some days that I wish I was. I wish I was this writer who wrote out of experience from passing street signs and from the beauty of what is around me. I wish I wrote pages and pages of these things, and these pages turned into novels and these novels would end up in someones hand at a bookstore, at a table with coffee and classical music, and it is being felt and it is being read. Purchased or unpurchased, it is read.
This dream is full of spandex, such a stretch, so until then, I will continue to be the reader; the other mover to this dance and live in other worlds of fictionalized characters.