Is there anyone else under all of this blue like me?
Do you read words on a page discovering amazing thoughts and reread it just to feel the words once again leave your lips, your mouth so full of the rhythm and the meaty, savory, ripeness of each syllable so carefully and intentionally crafted?
Is there anyone else that feels magic when you find the precise word to describe an exact movement, emotion, action? Do you feel immense gratitude for that word that string of letters that cuts through the superfluous to deliver your message without needing to stammer or um and ah or go on and on troubling yourself with long soliloquy just to express what this one word conveys so effortlessly?
Is there anyone else who closes a book in reverence with complete surrender knowing you have been forever changed by another's story? Do you feel the real heroes are authors who find ways to shape us all by spinning their tales and revealing their hearts and unleashing their demons onto blank pages?
Is there anyone else who could spend hours alone in rooms of books and feel that you are in the epicenter of it all forgetting to eat, forgetting your name, forgetting the world exists outside and that you must reenter your life and forsake the lives and places found in the pages and hardcovers around you?
Am I alone?
Of course you're not alone... My daughters summer reading list included The Pearl, Steinbeck. One of my favorite books of all time; it's bitter, sorrowful reality is an old cloak I have thrown over my shoulders many times. Needless to say, without her permission, I found a beautifully bound hard back copy of this book, inscribed it for her and pleaded that this book be one of her choices this summer. She immediately looked at the original publishing date, suspecting I had slipped an "old" book into her hands, hoping she wouldn't notice. "daaad, this book is too old, it won't be any good". Struggling to keep from being crushed by this ignorant statement about a story that has been so important to me, I implored. Then, as any good father does, when that didn't work, I demanded.
ReplyDeleteIt's hard to put into words the look on her face after she spent hours and days holed up in her room, pouring over this short and gripping tale of the quintessential father's struggle to love at any cost and the anguish of his failure... After reading enough times for it penetrate her youthful arrogance, she said nothing and with the book in her hands, gave me the longest hug to date. You are not alone. Thank you for your words CW.
Cheryl,
ReplyDeleteYou are not alone. You are with us. Writers, readers. Drawing strength and love from each other.
So glad we connected.
Tom