Just as the title says, I was reminded today (not that it takes much reminding) how much I love reading. This morning I woke up and drove over to the mall to go to Barnes and Noble. I tend to treat Barnes and Noble like a library, sitting there for hours a day in the big comfy chairs on the second floor by the bay window. I'll stroll over to the fiction section, peruse the new fiction collection, grab a couple books, and find a seat.
Today, sitting in one of those chairs and opening the cover of a book about a couple's deadly skiing trip, I felt my heart soar. The book wasn't that great in the end, but the words were enough for me. I have Picture of Dorian Gray, Heart of Darkness, and Age of Innocence in my purse right now, but as much fun as it is to sit in my bed and read through the sunshine hours, there's something magical about a bookstore.
Whenever I'm reading, that's one of the moments I all of a sudden want to write. Some days previous summers I've found myself running--no, sprinting--back home to my computer or an ample supply of paper on which to scribble the reel in my brain. This time today though, I simply soaked up the moment and let myself feel a couple minutes of...whatever the fuck it is. I would say happiness, but I'm not quite at that place yet post-Irish travels. Perhaps content? Naw, I hate that word, it's empty. At peace? Nope, sounds like I'm about to die. Don't know what it is, but I like it. So when I said I was going to spend my summer writing and at bookstores, it was no joke. Maybe I'll write tomorrow but come Thursday, I'll be curled up in one of those chairs, sighing out that window with a sly smile on my face.