I have been on the verge of writing another book for about 4 years now. I am courted by publishing houses, and by wonderful editors, yet I have resisted. In the past I have written successful “how to” books for the creative industry and craft world. I feel a step or two closer to writing a book but the actual writer in me keeps trying to get involved. Something deep inside me wants to discuss life, not just how to make something clever, wants to depart wisdom that arrived the hard way…wants to shed a skin.
I have come to look at books differently now due to the availability of electronic format but also because of my most recent move across the country from PA to Colorado. I moved from a great, big, old charming home to a much smaller funky tiny living space (in an amazing gem of a location). So I had to scale back all the belongings in my life, and one of the major players were all my books. I had a library that any artist would have been thrilled to inherit. Culling them down was like parting with old friends. I had to decide their fate one by one. It took days. Which book deserved to come with me? Which books deserved physical space in my life? I love books.
I also love libraries, the smell of them, the proximity of space within libraries, they are always housed in very nice buildings.
My favorite libraries have grand marble staircases. I find myself climbing them slowly so I can take in the way the center of each stair has been worn down, from footsteps!
What a gradual process, the soles of souls wearing a hard edge off one of the most durable materials into a softer, thinner center impression of all those who passed before me. Kind of what life itself does to us as we age. Something beautiful there.
Libraries have big windows where the sun streams in and illuminates the dust in the air reminding me of things smaller than myself that make up myself. Rooms full of people all being quiet and respectful moving around in the same room each with some entirely different subject matter going on in their minds. Libraries are beautiful places. I have an e-reader and love it because my beautiful daughter gifted me with it, and I use it but it does not compare to holding the spine in my palm and turning the delicate pages of a chapter. Life has changed. Now books have to deserve to stand in fleshy pulp on the shelf and take up physical space in my life.