I Want

I have about a half hour of typing in me each day before the arm goes numb (except for the last finger, which simply hurts like heck).  But I have ten daily hours, at least, of corporate work (yesterday was 14) and sometimes I write blog posts, and sometimes (though less so these days) emails, and every now and then I write a sentence or two of a novel.  I go around saying ouch ouch ouch ouch.  I'm just an old creak.  That's what I am.

What I would really like to do is sit back and read the work of others.  Just, like, sit here and read.  Monday evening, ahead of an event downtown, I slipped inside the cozy sleeve of a bookstore and swooned.  Oh, there they were, be still my heart—all those books that I have been craving (real books, real paper).  The Charles Frazier.  The Alexandra Fuller.  The Erin Morgenstern.  The Diana Abu Jaber.  The Chad Harbach.  I came home with the Harbach, only because the new Michael Ondaatje wouldn't be released until the next day.  (They had it in the store, I know they did, but the crafty lady at the front desk made like they didn't.)  

Oh, I want to read.  Oh, what writer doesn't.  Oh, yes.  My life is blessed.  But.  I just really want to sit and read.  I want to use this blog to celebrate the work of others.  I want to get the balance right.

Let me close by celebrating Miss Sarah Laurence, a multiply talented writer, critic, painter, photographer (and mom) who, despite being in the middle of writing a few books herself, took the time to read You Are My Only and to write so intelligently about it.  I won't hijack any of her words.  I'll just send you here.  Talk about balance, Sarah.  It's just so perfect.

Thank you.

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