Reading books, writing books – telling the stories – it’s all the same. All summer long I’ve been following the music, with ukulele and songs in tow – the books that surround and envelop me have been cast aside for the music. Now it’s time to return to them, to open up the inviting pages of the books that are like old friends – to relish in them, get lost in them.
It’s time to revisit the books I put aside right after I got my master’s degree in May – after taking classes that required me to read books and stories and analyze them, take them apart, when all I wanted to do was enjoy them – but then I was able to create my own stories, my own book which is simply a recounting of my daily life – my young muse takes me in a certain direction and I follow her willingly – it’s like following the “Muse-ic” as my good friend Floyd calls it – the muse follows the music and helps me to see the stories.
Books surround me everywhere – they’re all over my house in book shelves where I can look at them and regret them as if they’re my friends – I’ve even got a row of books sitting at my desk here at work – literary books, musical books, fiction, nonfiction – you name it.
Perhaps I can somehow hear the music and the rhythm in the books that I love so much.
Reading books is a luxury – it’s delicious and fun and so personal.