I buy a lot of books, at least two or three a week – it's a sickness, really. Fiction, non-fiction, cookery, business, poetry, art, photography, spiritual, self-awareness, inspiration. As i no longer drink or smoke, it really is my only vice – well, that and buying film for a certain camera. I like to have books around me, as evidenced by the piles on, under and beside my coffee table; the two teetering piles beside my bed; the warped shelves stuffed with books. I try to stick to a one-in one-out policy, so that any time I purchase something new – glasses, plates, tea light holders, whatever – the older items are taken to the charity shop; alas, i fall down when it comes to the lovely beautiful books. Today i forced myself to fill up a couple of bags with books to take to Oxfam, but i know i'll come back with more bargains.
I think i'm always on the search for the perfect book. You know the one? The book that you'll carry in your bag wherever you go. The book that you scribble notes in. The book you turn to when you need something to lift you up. The book you can quote by heart. I have yet to find that book. I mean, i have many books i treasure, and i can think of four or five i could mix in a blender for a near-perfect book smoothie. The other night i was trying to unwind, bored of television, computered-out, and i picked up book after book, flipped through page after page, and nothing stuck. And the next thought was: write the book you want to read. Just get on with it, for heaven's sake!*
In my first ever blog post i mentioned that i was writing a book. I honestly can't think of a time when i haven't been writing or making notes towards a book idea. These days I'm feeling the urge to run away to a remote cabin in the countryside, where i can sit with my laptop (absolutely NO internet access) and start stitching together everything i have written so far. Make a proper start on something concrete. But i also know that the words need the fertile soil of my life around them to help them grow. I can't write in a vacuum, as much as i'd like to; it's just that the soil is a bit too fertile these days. I'm pouring everything i can into my courses, and concerning myself with building something sustainable – something i've never had in my life, other than the love of my family. I see my sister growing my niece/nephew and with every day that passes she is building her own family, one that will consist of the three of them. and i want some of that too, but it will be in my own way: i no longer relate to the word "single" – i am simply a family of one.
But I digress. It's time to accept that there's never going to be a perfect sea of endless days when i can write. I will always have other stuff to do. So if that's the case, then i may as well just get on with it. I don't want to be one of those people who talks about the book and never actually writes it. It's time to face up to what's really going on here – blatant fear of failure. Why do our creative dreams cause us so much angst? – and just start somewhere. Even if i do feel like my days are already full-to-bursting, I can still eek out some time. No more talk; it's time to put my pen where my mouth is.
* the language i used was a shade more colourful