(no subject)
Today our realtor was over at our house helping to get it looking nice for showings. We have moved our bookshelf downstairs, and in the spirit of making the house look more "showy" have removed roughly 80% of our books from it and put them into storage, replacing them with useful items like fake plants and metallic bowls filled with rocks. It was a somewhat difficult endeavor for me to whittle down the books to a small selection, which is a peculiar since I don't really read any of them on a regular basis. The realtor decided there were still too many books on the shelf, and reduced the number even more. So Milton and Dickens were packed away, along with the Odyssey, books on philosophy, sci-fi selections from Gibson, the best of Poe. I couldn't really watch her cut the number down, and I found this a bit surprising. I definitely haven't devoted my time to reading much these days, so why should it bother me to see them boxed up?
She noticed me sort of cringing in the background as she plucked the volumes from the shelf, and asked me if I really even used all these books. I told her I referenced them from time to time, and she asked me if I was a student.
I replied, without hesitation, that I was a writer.
The instant I blurted out the words, I found myself caught in a bit of a lie, and started making excuses for myself... well, I mean, I went to school for writing... I don't really write at the moment but I hope to one day...
But there it was. I had said it and though for her it likely held little meaning, the moment continues to strike a chord inside my thoughts, so much so that despite the fact I haven't written in my journal since last year, I'm here now typing this.
Now to have a cup of coffee and figure out what's on my mind.
She noticed me sort of cringing in the background as she plucked the volumes from the shelf, and asked me if I really even used all these books. I told her I referenced them from time to time, and she asked me if I was a student.
I replied, without hesitation, that I was a writer.
The instant I blurted out the words, I found myself caught in a bit of a lie, and started making excuses for myself... well, I mean, I went to school for writing... I don't really write at the moment but I hope to one day...
But there it was. I had said it and though for her it likely held little meaning, the moment continues to strike a chord inside my thoughts, so much so that despite the fact I haven't written in my journal since last year, I'm here now typing this.
Now to have a cup of coffee and figure out what's on my mind.