Now I've always been a reader. This trait can be attributed to my mom. The yoga and wellness thing comes from my dad for sure. The travel thing comes from both of them. But literature? I can thank my mom, the editor, the english major
(which I should have been damn it, didn't have the guts).
[Side psychological moment:
It makes me think, do we choose our professions based on what we grew up around?
Or are our career decisions sometimes a way of getting that acceptance and admiration from our parents? A LOT of people do what their parents did. Just saying.]
I have to say, for me, the holistic wellness/yoga thing is something I enjoy so much, it makes me think it's the environmental/upbringing cause. Maybe even nature and nurture.
The reading and writing thing? Definitely a love and passion.
If I could, I'd sit on my ass and let someone feed me grapes (or right now, dark chocolate covered coffee beans) while I read without stopping (except to do some yoga) without bathing or sleeping.
The only break I would take would be to write out of sheer inspiration when it hit me.
But alas, life is there. There is so much to do. I can't roll around on my mother's antique chaise lounge reading while someone brings fresh vegetable juice and probiotic drinks on a gold tray.
So the book pile builds. My own slush pile. I always read several books at one time. But now, it's just ridiculous. The leaning tower of Pisa on the bedside table has become daunting. There's stuff on the bottom I've been reading since this time last year. I do not relent, I will move forward. The pile will shrink.
Happy to say, I've taken one hefty baby off the pile.
Hate to make a hunting analogy, but this 770-page novel is my mount. My deer antlers or whatever. What I mean is, this has been an extremely busy time, what with all the biological nesting drive and stuff all around me. To credit Donna Tartt, in my opinion, it was a pretty easy kill. She writes like Fabritius painted (alluding directly to the masterpiece in the title). A true work of art.
While Will anxiously searched for a fabled buck that he saw around our house with a supposed beautiful something-point, I furiously fired through this thing,
taking note of this woman's talent I truly admire. (Different strokes for different folks. Different hobbies for different bobbies. You get my gist. I don't know what a bobbie is. I made that up).
Nancy chose this for our book club. We had a great discussion. Not everyone loved it, which made for the great conversation. So glad we got this group together. Reading is so important, kids.
Then there are the baby books. Good-ness.
Ina May Gaskin gets to the point and tells it like it is.
I'm reading her breast feeding book now.
Been through about 4 childbirth books since I found out I was pregnant.
Geesh, you add that to the nutrition and yoga books constantly thrown about my house, the fun non-fictions and short story collections, plus the novels waiting in line under this month's book club book, and you need about 3-4 months of being on a deserted island to complete half of it.
Still the slushie pile grows. Working in a bookstore doesn't help. Yesterday at TurnRow, I started sweating when Jamie asked me if I have anything I've read to recommend for the spring. I almost had an anxiety attack. I got defensive as usual and said,
"Maybe after I've read all the books I am reading that are already out there!" I'm surprised I didn't add, "I'm not a freaking machine!"
Dang. I'm that under-achieving employee. While everyone else reads at the speed of sound,
I'm floundering around in last year's prize winners. I almost feel illiterate around those people.
I feel like a 13-year-old when they are discussing authors, and I'm like,
"Oh yes, I agree. Who is that again?"
But, hey, doing the best I can. And that's what I am doing.
Struggling to keep up? Whatever. Go at your pace.