Reading and Writing

Happy Monday!  It started off to be a busy weekend here.  The girls went to a ballgame and I went out to dinner with a friend from work Friday night (two nights out in one week, hey).  No great photos like you had it was dark and noisy and my friend is very camera shy.  Saturday we hauled around town, farmstand, grocery, shopping etc.

Today, Sunday, I have found myself attached to the couch.  A pillow, a book and a blanket.  My cousins daughter is here visiting so the girls were mostly occupied with her today.

I almost finished The Time Traveler's Wife today.  I'm very glad you recommended it to me, it has been on my "to read" list but that is ten miles long so it may have taken me awhile to get there.  I think I am finding a special place in my heart for it.  So having a lazy day I am almost done.  It felt good to laze about. 

I have never made a comment though on the book discussion.  I read the book discussion notes in the back of the book today as well and thought: I wouldn't know what to say about the theme of death, I just really, really, like the story.  I felt this way when I was in school and I took a Literary Criticism class.  It was all about reading what people had written about books and discussing it and it was actually the only English class I took that I disliked.  I couldn't help but feel inferior when I didn't get all these great cosmic nuances of the stories.  And who is to say that I read the story incorrectly?  Isn't the best part of reading the fact that you get to personally take something from it?  And doesn't everyone get something individual to themselves out of the tale?

So I tend to shy away from book discussions.  What I can tell you though about this book (and so many others) is they sometimes make me feel inferior.  I love excellent writing but sometimes with my favorite authors and even some of my favorite friends, I think wow, what they have written is beatiful and so eloquent I could never even hope to throw my own writing out there.

Then I realize that the literary world would be quite a dull place if we all wrote with the same voice.  What I have to remember is the words that I string together, the stories I have to tell are that, they are mine and they must be told my way, to the best of my ability.

No one could write what I write so therefore I couldn't dream to write like Audrey Niffeneger, Alice Hoffman or even you or Sara.

I have come to realize that writing for me comes from what I know best and right now that thing is motherhood. I find that is where I find my best voice, where the words tend to flow easiest from the well.  In my heart I guess I know that I should start with motherhood, with daughters, with this experience I've been given and work from there.

Friday, I wrote this piece that I have posted on my blog today about a fight I had with Emily that morning.  I wrote it at lunchtime at work, because it was still on my mind.  I don't think I could write anything with such heart that I didn't have my heart invested in.

On another note, you've been quiet this weekend.  I hope you are well.  I hope perhaps you are taking that Internet break you've been threatening.  I know I could sometimes use it myself. I look forward though to see what's going on over there across the sea.