“Maybe
we understand, in some way, that books represent the permanent part of us that
can “shed” the body and live on for a time in the new form of words.” (Roger Kamenetz, 1950--)
Is reading
my hobby? No more so than eating and
breathing. It’s my sustenance. I am driven to read by unquenchable
curiosity.
I am a
bibliophile. I treasure books, real books, not ebooks. When I read a book, I
need to hold it, turn each page, underline and make occasional notes in the
margins. At times, I find books
oppressive. Books unread remind me of my
finiteness; how much I don’t know, how much I still want to learn, how little
time there is. Mortality forces me to
choose and prioritize, to read some and to put aside so many others.
Sometimes
when I read great books and essays, I imagine I'm listening in on a great conversation,
ideas being discussed and debated, back and forth defying barriers of time and
space. When I write, I pretend that I am
no longer a passive listener, but a small contributor to that eternal dialogue.
Is
writing my hobby? No, it’s my creative
outlet and my therapy. The best
self-help book I’ll ever read? The one I’ve
yet to write.
It’s easy
for me to read. It’s hard for me to write. The more I write, the more I fall
behind in my reading. I find excuses to not write. It takes time and effort. It takes a willingness to be vulnerable; a
willingness to accept the scrutiny and criticism of readers. Perhaps hardest is wanting the writing to matter,
fearing that it will not.
I
write for my children. I want them to know me for my beliefs and ideas, for my occasional
humor and my occasional wisdom. And if they happen to read what I’ve written, I
hope they hear my open invitation to join me in a great conversation. Here are my thoughts and beliefs. Now, I want to know, what are yours?
This
is my 50th blog post.
Time out while I catch up on some reading.
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