I'm NOT Writing a Book

Because I don't want to.

I know a lot of bloggers are.  I know many bloggers blog for this very reason, to work toward publishing a book.  And when I started blogging there was a part of me that hoped to be discovered and pursued by publishers.  A tiny, dreamy part.

Being pursued sounded nice.  Being wanted is cool.  But what comes next?  Okay, that part holds me up.

Right now I just don't have the burn to write a book.  It's not inside me itching to get out.  I don't ache to tell a story, at least not one I can't tell through blogging.  And that matters to me.  Writing needs to come from my gut.  I need to need to tell a story.  Or it's just not a satisfying and cathartic experience.  And that's what I want writing to continue to be for me.

I would love to have my words touch everyone, reach every corner of the world.  I really would.  But I don't think writing a book would make that happen.  I think writing a book would make my words and thoughts and experiences less accessible to those who may benefit from them most.

A book intimidates many people.  A blog is easier.  A book costs money.  A blog is free.  A book becomes too much about me.  My words are for everyone.

And as much as it makes my husband crazy, I don't want to be paid for my writing.  Yes, we could use the money.  Yes, I'd like to feel like I contribute something to our family budget.  But not through writing.

Writing is from my heart.  It's spiritual.  It's how I offer a piece of myself to the universe hoping to make it a better place.  I believe charging for it would cheapen it.  Would tarnish it.

Which is funny because I don't feel this way about other writers.  I have bought many books over the years and (almost) never felt like an author sold out because he/she put their writing into a book.  I've never felt writing had less value because it was bound and sold.  I don't look down on or judge people who make money off their writing.

It's just not for me.  I may change my mind some day.  But today, my words are free.  And I offer them to you.

A Big, Beautiful Library in My Home

I grew up wanting walls of books.  A room where each wall was floor to ceiling with them.  Maybe a small den area with a fine oak desk and a great leather executive chair and a bay window with pillows to read in.

The wonderful room I saw in so many movies growing up.  I was in love with the magic of this imaginary room.  I knew that I would one day have one in my home.

And so, as my life progressed, I accumulated books.  I believe strongly in the power of reading.  A love of reading.  And in order to facilitate this for my children I made sure to have lots of books.  Lots for them to read at every age.  Lots for me to read, since it's important for children to see their parents reading if they are to catch the reading bug.  And because I like to read.

But I learned that books are mostly a one time deal.  You read them once and move on to the next adventure.  Maybe little kid books are read over and over, but even then it's only a select few.  We own hundreds, if not thousands, of books.  I would estimate that the ones that have been read more than once are fewer than five percent.

So why do I still have them?  I've been pondering this for quite a while now.  How many books that I own do I love enough that I would save them from a burning building?  Truthfully, none.

The reasons I came up with for still having them are interesting.  I have them because I spent money on them and books are good and noble things to have.  I have them because I enjoyed them and would like to have them to loan to friends or suggest to my kids.  I have them because I always wanted that big library.

None of those reasons are good enough to me anymore.  The magic is not in the big, beautiful library.  The magic is in gaining a love of reading.  Taking my kids to the public library is an adventure.  It's magical.  The library has more than I can possibly ever offer.  They can keep up with my kids' changing tastes.  They have all the newest books.  And they store them so I don't have to.

I'm not going to lie.  It's tough.  I consider this sort my first.  I know I will sort again and get rid of more.  Right now if I struggle to decide, I keep it.  Or if one of my kids feels strongly about it, I keep it.  And I'm boxing some up for my daughter who is going to teach high school English; she'll have a good collection of classics in her classroom without having to buy them.

There are a few that I really enjoyed that I considered keeping.  But I'm imagining that there are others out there who would enjoy them too.  I am ready to pass them on, knowing I can always get them from the library if I really want to read them again.

I'm keeping several for my grandma days.  I want to be the grandma who reads with the kids.  And who encourages reading when they visit.

But the tough ones.  Oh, yes, there are tough ones.  I have many books that were given to me after my grandma died.  With inscriptions.  To her from her father.  The book is not something I will ever read.  I have many other keepsakes from her.  And yet, I can't just donate them.  I'm cheating and giving them back to my mother.  I'll probably have to face the decision again when my mom passes away.  For now, they can live at her house.

There are also some that are quite old.  I have several from the 1900s and a few from the 1800s.  Some in good shape, some not so much.  I can't seem to part with the ones that are over a hundred years old.  Whether I would ever read them or not.  Even if the binding is falling apart.  I still might donate them, but I would want to donate them to someone who would know how they should really be cared for.  Someone who could preserve their beauty.

I've made lots of progress.  I've got a few boxes ready to go.  I'll be getting rid of more as I continue to clean and sort through my house.  I'll let some friends go through them and take what they want and then I'll donate what's left to the public library.  I'm ready to let these old friends have a new adventure with a new home.

Most of them, anyway.

Of Books and Women

What is book club? 

My eleven-year old asked me this recently.  She asked if we each take turns and just read to a certain spot like in her reading circles at school.  I smiled as I imagined us reading Gaskell's North and South together as a group.  If we read for two hours each meeting it would take us about a year to finish the book.

So I explained to her that we each read the chosen book on our own and then get together to discuss it.  She seemed to get it.

This question was asked because of my griping.  I am not thrilled with the book chosen for book club this month.  I keep referring to it as my homework.  I keep complaining about having to read it.

And I have been told more than once by more than one person I live with, "So don't read it then."

But I can't.  I have to read it.

I don't always read the books.  Sometimes they just don't interest me or I can't get one in my hands soon enough.  Or I had other things to do that were more important to me.  This time I just flat out disagree with the author of the book.

But my reason for attending book club is not what it used to be.  I used to go as an excuse to get out of my house for the evening.  Or to spend some time with adults having real conversations.  And those things still apply.

However, my main drive for being part of book club now is to share in others' opinions.  To not only be exposed to literature that I wouldn't pick on my own, but to see how others see what we read.  How they feel.  What they learned.  Not only do I grow as a person, but I get to know my neighbors so much better by looking through their windows on the world.

And I have been told that I am an important part of book club precisely for the reason that I am often the dissenting opinion.  They want to see things differently, too.

Imagine that.  I have finally found a place where my disagreeability is a good thing.