Yesterday I was having breakfast with my family when a woman walked by our table, sneaking furtive glances at my daughter who was reading a book. When I caught this woman's eye and she realized she'd been found out, she declared, "You never see anyone reading a book these days--I love books!"
Me too, sister.
This morning I was reading The Journals of Sylvia Plath. I love to read the journals of writers, they're such a comfort to me, especially in my struggle to get what's in my heart and mind down on the page. I read and I realize: these people are like me and maybe I'm not as crazy as I often feel. Or maybe I am, but I'm in good company.
In Wild Mind: Living the Writer's Life, Natalie Goldberg talks about an encounter she had with Cecil Dawkins, a novelist who had read Goldberg's first book, Writing Down the Bones. Of this book Dawkins said, "When you are done with it, you know the author better. That's all a reader really wants--to know the author better. Even if it's a novel, they want to know the author."
I couldn't agree more.