I have a handful of writing books that I have read a thousand times, and they just cycle around the house. I can’t poop unless I’m reading*, so mostly they go from bathroom to couch because I start reading them again in the bathroom and get all inspired and bring them out to my nest in the living room and then I repeat that cycle a billion more times.
Anyway, one of those books is Stephen King’s On Writing**. I love it because it isn’t flouncy and long, it’s to the point. It is also a good reminder that this guy knows what he is doing – I think he gets a bad rap because he writes “popular” fiction, but he is wicked smart. All of this is to say, his theory that writing is telepathy never fails to fascinate me. So it is, when you think about it. I am in my living room, wearing Powerpuff Girls** socks, sitting on a leather couch with a white blanket, with the Celtics playing in the background. When I tell you that, and read it hours later, the next day, whenever – you see it. And there are variations to be sure. You may picture a knitted blanket when really it is muslin one, etc. but for a minute, we are seeing roughly the same thing.
I think it’s magic, that’s what I am trying to say.
It is stormy and cold here in the NW, I didn’t want to leave the house at all today but I had a coffee and bookstore date with a friend and her baby. It was Fiona’s first trip to a book store, and I had a fabulous time wandering with her. Her big bright eyes took in the stacks of books with a solemn stare, like she knew we were in a church of sorts. I let her touch the spines, and whispered titles in her ear until she fell asleep. I could have stayed there all day.
Tomorrow is more stormy weather, but we are headed out to the farm where it is always roughly 120 degrees, so we are in no danger of being cold. I am going to make something with butternut squash and declare it a perfect Saturday.
*I could have told this story without this detail, no?
**I’ve included the lings for you.