piece of cake
I have never been a big fan of self-help books.
My sister went through a phase, and was pleased with her results, but I've never granted them much leave. There is this nice young lady though, of whom I am reasonably fond, and we have dinner sometimes.
More importantly, I trust her opinion about things. She is well informed and reasonable, she is very confident and convincing, and I will say also that she has a lovely voice. This is to illustrate, if only to me, why I would brave the awful and embarrassing waters of self help books at the behest of someone I have only recently made the acquaintance of.
We have dinner, as I said, and this is more or less the extent of our relationship. We go for drives sometimes, which I enjoy very much, but she thinks I drive too fast and therefor the conversation is better over dinner. It happens sometimes that we talk about how sad I am, and anxious, and related things which you may know about me or can reasonably assume. The past few weeks have been very hard, I have a headache all day and my jaw has started to hurt from clenching, and since I got fired from the studio I have plenty of time on my hands to worry and exhaust myself with stress and resentment.
Last night was one of these conversations, and either from being truly exhausted by it or truly believing that this will help, she demanded that we go straight from dinner to the bookstore.
It turns out that she loves the self-help section. I was aware already that she loves books, but I tell you that the joy with which this young lady perused the self-help section of the bookstore was in itself almost enough to send me skipping into the bright fields of joyous tall grasses I've been told I will inhabit when my attitude becomes more accommodating of their waving frivolity.
Picture of encouragement that she is, the self-help section is as close to a nightmare as I can get in a store. It gets difficult. I'll spare you the fun-poking at the titles and authors, because I am trying at least to be helpful and pleasant, and while I am certainly miserable I am not mean spirited. We settled finally on the book pictured above, mostly because Dale was born in 1888 and it was published in 1944 and we agreed that I would read the book more readily knowing that it wasn't too new. The cover is a strike, it is far too forward and attention-getting. Whatever. I have promised that I will read it and attempt to be positive about it, and I will do it. My mother always encouraged me to keep promises to girls you are reasonably fond of.
Today then, being the next day, is the best day to start the book. I can tell you proudly that I have read the preface. It is very, very difficult for me to think positively. I do not like Dale anymore. He seems like a nice enough fellow, but also one that is very pleased with himself and his simple solution to lasting happiness. Whatever. I will say, though, that the last paragraph of the preface is illustrative of something I can agree with, that "the problem is not ignorance." It is true that I know what I need to know, but that I am unwilling on some level to act upon it.
Alright Dale, we'll see what else you have to say. I am not happy about this, though.
The next section, an addendum to the preface, is a list.
NINE SUGGESTIONS ON HOW TO GET THE MOST OUT OF THIS BOOK
I perused the section, I will have to read it again. But step nine is to keep a diary of progress, and with this handy journaling thing laying otherwise unused, I sat down immediately to write this.
yours,
jesse