Today is the fourth day I have been home sick. It’s strep throat, says the doc. I’m on antibiotics and am counting down the hours until I am no longer contagious and can return to the land of the living.
Meanwhile, what have I done with my time?
I’ve napped like crazy. I mean, I don’t think I’ve actually been awake for a period of more than, say, four or five hours at any given time in the last four days. Petey’s been right by my side the whole way, fully supportive of my leanings toward hibernation.
And that’s about it, really. I’ve read some, and I hope to finally finish the Jane Hamilton novel I’ve been picking at for a couple weeks. And once that’s over with, I’ll have to find something new to read. I purged my shelves a couple months ago–sold maybe 50 or 60 books, but really it seems like I sold more–and I still have lots of stuff I haven’t yet read. I’ve been wanting to organize my books, at the very least divide the read from the unread. I buy books in bulk twice a year, and when I’m reaching for something new to read I do have to have to look at the covers first, that’s how it is.
I’ve been futzing a lot with the looks of this page, too. I’m not sure what kind of look I’m going for, or why I’m even bothering, but somehow it’s become important that what I write match the ‘cover’ of this blog.
I am one to judge books (and blogs) by their covers. I don’t know why I do it; I just do.
When I go to the SPL booksale, I buy paperback only, and never mass market paperbacks. They must be in decent shape, of course. I sometimes find myself turning down a book just because I don’t like the image on the front cover, or because the back cover has a trite quote from a reviewer. I always pick up books that have won awards–I think it’s the Keith Scribner in me, that itty bitty part of me that never got fully clean after a fiction workshop in which he told us that if we want to be real writers we should move to New York and party with the affluent crowd.
I feel dirty for telling you this, but it’s true.
I wonder if Keith ever googles his own name. And I wonder if he’ll come across this blog one day and see that I wrote about him. Maybe one day I’ll tell you about the pinecone that fell out of a woman in the middle of his workshop, or maybe I’ll tell you about the time he told the class that we were all middle class white folks.
Or maybe I won’t tell you those stories at all. Maybe I’ll just keep on writing the way I write and doing what I do, and maybe I’ll just keep on truckin’ without giving much thought to the affluent or ignorant. And maybe one day I’ll let go of thinking about what words look like on the page.