On Sunday while I was working at the bookstore I decided to tidy up the writing reference section. It’s housed in these narrow, elevated shelves with the literary magazines, right behind the fiction section. It doesn’t seem to get as much organizational love as the other sections, probably because there’s less of a turnover rate, and also because it’s a little hidden from view. I moved some books from one shelf to another, and made enough room to face out one special book. I chose Steven King’s On Writing, which I have never read but have heard is wonderful from a number of sources. I held it for a few seconds and looked at the cover. I thought about buying it, but I have stacks of books at home waiting to be read. I’ll buy it some day, I thought. When I need a little inspiration.

I’m not much for reading books about writing; I would rather just sit down and do it already. But I have learned in the past few years that it is sometimes important for me to stop what I’m doing and force myself to listen to what other people have to say. Writing and spirituality, those are my two areas I have been working on. It is not that I have disregard for other people. It’s just that I have so much going on in my head that it is hard sometimes to put things on pause and slow down and listen. It’s like rush hour all the time up there. Always has been.

Last night I had dinner with David from Largehearted Boy and his lovely wife Linda, and then we went to David’s first Largehearted Lit event at Word. The two readers were Marcy Dermansky and Mark SaFranko, and they did wonderfully. The musical performance was by Amy Bezunartea, who has a direct and beautiful voice. It was a real treat to have such an intimate experience. The basement at the bookstore is small and it carries sound well. No one ever needs a microphone there. Whenever I’m in the audience I always feel like the reader is talking directly to me.

Halfway through her performance, Amy started talking about books. She said she had been walking around the store with her friend looking at the shelves, and then she started talking about On Writing, and how it’s such a great book, and this gentle heat emanated from me — I think it was from my throat.

I have been tired lately, and discouraged, and it is winter, and my sleep pattern is crazy, and all I do is eat pasta. Even as I type this I am sitting beneath a grey, cold sky, and it is starting to snow. Why is it snowing again? The baby next door is crying. Everyone keeps telling me how tired I look. I am flatlining over here.

But there was something rosy and warm that started in that moment. I touch the book. I turn the book in a different direction. Now she can see it. She talks about it. I listen to her talk about it. I listen to her sing her pretty, wistful songs.

I will read this book.

(01/26/11) | 5 Comments »