Stack of Books

I have a stack of books waiting to be read. Stacks, really. They pile up on my nightstand, my little green table in the corner of the living room, and even the kitchen counter. When I go out and there’s any chance I’ll have time to read, I pack not one but two books in my bag, although I rarely have a chance to pull out the first one, much less finish. My iPhone is to blame: if I have ten minutes these days, I’m more apt to check the weather, the news, Twitter, or emails since they’re always in my pocket. This summer I’m aiming for less iPhone, more books. Household chores are to blame. If the laundry is piled up or nothing is in the works for supper, I don’t feel able to sit down and read. There’s work to be done! But now I’m back to the point of feeling lost and out of sync without my books, without my writing (it’s been a few weeks); I’ve allowed my schedule to get off track, so I’ve not had time for books or words of any sort. Which brings me back to this: I only have time for reading and writing if I make time. There will always be something else that needs to be cleaned, managed, put away, washed, or cooked. Always. It will never end. Therefore, I must stop working at some point and get back to reading and writing, just because I want to. No, I need to – because without reading and writing, I’m anxious and unhappy.

Today I’ve packed two books: Reading Lolita in Tehran and The Writer’s Journey. Reading Lolita is the book for Thursday night’s book club meeting, but I have put it off so long that I only started it last night. There’s very little chance I’ll finish in time, but at least I will have started. The Writer’s Journey is that wonderful book about mythic structure; my blogging goal was to write about writing every Wednesday, and if I’m going to blog again tomorrow, I need to learn something new. And oh yes, there are others. The Unfolding of Language, which I’m halfway into, is a fascinating nonfiction that my Dad loves and loaned to me. Still Life With Chickens is a loan from Katie, in honor of the fact that I now have chickens. The Beck Diet has a hot pink dust jacket and is a loan from Jana, about training yourself to improve willpower and how the mind works regarding such things (I think). Learn Telugu Through English, because I dream that my third trip to India will be the one where I can understand what people are saying. Then there’s The Bluest Eye, overdue from the library. Add to that a book about gardening and a couple about parenting teens. The chicken book I reviewed yesterday, which I need to go back through and take a few notes so I’ll remember some of the guidelines about feeding and chicken healthcare. Writing Down The Bones. Zen in the Art of Writing, which I want to reread with a highlighter. Several other books about the art and process of writing. A paperback fiction book that I got for free with a shirtless and well-muscled man on the cover holding a sword. And who knows what else? Those are just the books I can remember without looking. There are books hiding in drawers, growing dusty in their piles on shelves, books that have found their way under the bed, or were never taken out of the bag I carried last month. Books in the car. Books in boxes in the garage that I mean to read someday. They are comforting, even the dusty ones, symbols of knowledge waiting to be learned and stories waiting to be known. Future, fantasy, education, wisdom – all at my fingertips, ready for me to choose them, to drink them in and make them a part of myself.