this bookish life
I sometimes feel like I've entered the enchanted fairy tale phase of a bookish life. Started out a plucky Dickensian waif. Slogged through an adolescence scripted by the brothers Grimm. Spent my late teens and early twenties C. S. Lewis-ing it up as a gung-ho Christian "artiste". Next phase: a little Plath, a little Wolfe, a little Dostoevsky. Jung. Maslow. Oliver Sacks. Years spent traveling paths paved with pop-psych paperback maps. Early thirties? Struggle and heartbreak and exhilarating growth as I reviewed my life from a John Irving slope. Then K. Romance, travel, adventure, and serious, serious grown-up love. Future. Family. Home. Happily Ever (So Far) After.
(inspired by delphizyx's response to this post. Thanks, d.)