Rumor ‘round the blogging community is that Belle de Jour, who I link to in my Weblogs and Friends section over there on the right, has signed a very lucrative book contract. Her weblog-- that of a high class London call girl-- is certainly entertaining and well-written. The question of whether she’s really a call girl or just a writer with an active imagination has come up, but what does it matter? Sex sells.
Apparently the answer to the question, “Who do I have to sleep with to get a book deal?” is quite a few lonely London businessmen. Good for her.
The next question is, how do you explain the book deal to all your friends and family who don’t know what you do for a living?
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It started out innocently enough. I picked up a book at the bookstore even though I was currently reading a book and then I picked up another and another… until the books I’d bought were stacked to the ceiling waiting to be read, while I continued to buy more books. It is an addiction, a book addiction.
There was a time when I would re-read books because I’d read everything I owned. There was a time when I haunted the library, checking out books several times a week. Then about ten years ago, I started reviewing books for The Literary Times. I took on reviewing duties for a couple other magazines over the years, as well. Books came pouring in, from the magazines, from editors, from authors. I was reading three to five books a week, just trying to keep up. Instead of subsisting on a diet of review books only, I kept buying new books and squeezing them in where I could. Only, I rarely could. So the books accumulated as the review books took precedence until I found myself moving sixty-four boxes (yes, you read that right, sixty-four) of books from South Carolina to Rhode Island and then, six months later, from Rhode Island to Virginia. Of those untold number of books, I have read maybe half. HALF. Insanity, I tell you.
I frequently vow not to buy any more books until I’ve at least read a few dozen of the ones I already own. It doesn’t work for long. Soon, I’m at it again, buying a book that I absolutely must read. Or two, even. I check out books from the library, renew them twice, keep them until I’m getting overdue notices and then return them, unread. Why, why, why do I do this?
I love books. I love reading them, I love writing them. There are more books I want to read in the world right now than I could read in a lifetime, nevermind the new ones being published every day. Worse, there are more novel ideas in my head then I will be able to write in this lifetime. It makes me sad; so many good stories waiting for me, if only I could find the time to read them. So many good stories in my imagination, if only I had the time to write them.
My addiction has taken an ominous turn, I’m afraid. I’ve cut back on my book-buying for myself, though I still check books out from the library at an alarming rate. Now I’ve put the burden of my addiction on those closest to me by purchasing books for other people. Granted, I’ve always bought books as gifts. This is different. Where I used to buy a book for someone for a specific occasion, I’m now buying books with no occasion in mind.
I have three or four books sitting around right now that are for upcoming birthdays. I have another three or four books earmarked for specific people and their birthdays are months away. It’s crazy. I see a book I think someone would like and I don’t consider the fact that their birthday was a month ago and Christmas is ten months away. Who needs a special occasion to give a book, I ask myself. I will give the gift of reading year ‘round. I will be the Johnny Appleseed of books, spreading goodwill through literature.
I bought a book for a friend today. Her birthday is coming up and I don’t feel the least bit guilty about that purchase. I bought another book for myself… and I know that if I don’t read it in the next month, it will be relegated to the dusty piles climbing the walls. Next time, I’ll be better. Next time I won’t buy any books. Okay, next time I won’t buy any books for myself. Okay, next time I’ll only buy a book for myself if I absolutely, positively must have it and intend to read it within the week.
Help me, someone.
Oh, wait… I bet there’s a book out there about book addiction…
I know I’ve been rather quiet this week. No particular reason, except that I think I sometimes use too much of my creative energy here instead of directing it into other writing. It’s easier to spend my time being (somewhat) clever here than writhing in agony over some new writing project that requires blood and sweat to produce. And yet, I don’t think any of you are going to be sending me checks any time soon, right? Right. So, I need to turn my attention to some other writing, lest my only claim to fame be “the girl with the (somewhat) clever weblog.
I’d also like to expand the writing portion of this site, adding links to publishers and magazines. The links I currently list are only ones I have worked with personally. I have several articles about writing and publishing I intend to put up eventually, as well as excerpts from forthcoming works and works-in-progress. This is, after all, the website of a writer. Ultimately, I would like to be a resource for other writers (and readers) as well as entertaining y’all with my musings.
I am a writer. I work in a library. Literacy is important to me. Therefore, I can state without any hesitation that the average adult cannot read! How do I know this? Come along with me while I examine the facts:
--A sign that reads: “Please go to the INFORMATION DESK if you need assistance” sat on my desk for my entire lunch hour. It is not written in small print, it is not ambiguous. Despite this fact, I was chastised by a woman of questionable intellect because I was not at my desk and, therefore, she could not get assistance. Um… hello?
--A woman asks for a book. I give her the call number 975.5 SIM and direct her to the nonfiction section (never mind that there is a big sign screaming NONFICTION over the nonfiction section, I didn’t want her to have any confusion whatsoever). She comes back ten minutes later complaining that she cannot find the book, it must not be here. It took me longer to walk back to the nonfiction section than it did for me to find the book, which was (surprisingly enough) exactly where it was supposed to be.
--I send a man to the shelf where the beginning reader books are located in the children’s room. The beginning readers are actually labeled EASY READERS on the shelf (presumably because it takes up less space), which I’m sure could be confusing. Therefore, I tell him the shelf is labeled EASY READERS. I tell him it’s the last short shelf before the tall shelves. I tell him it is on the opposite side from the WI-Z shelf. I even point to where it is, from less than twenty feet away. I find him ten minutes later wandering around the juvenile non-fiction (you know, the tall shelves labeled with numbers), scratching his head and saying I didn’t really tell him where to look.
--A parent directs her child to play on a children’s computer after I sign the child up. I send the child to the third computer, “The one with the cat.” The child actually heads in the right direction and Mom redirects her… to a computer labeled LIBRARY CATALOG.
It’s no wonder literacy is such an issue in this country. We’ve got a generation of illiterate adults trying to teach the next generation how to read.
Exciting news in my e-mail from the lovely Tristan Taormino:
“Congratulations! We’ve been nominated! For the second year in a row! You all rock!!”
Best Lesbian Erotica 2004 has been nominated for a Lambda award in the erotica category. I had a story in an anthology last year that was nominated for a Lammy, but we did not win (Best Lesbian Erotica 2003 won, oddly enough). It’s a collective effort, but I’m still proud to be a part of the group. We do rock. Of course, the irony would be if Karen’s anthology won the Lammy, as I submitted a story to her for that collection and was rejected. Ah well, it’s a honor just to be nominated, right?
What’s it all about?
Life. Love. Writing. Editing. Sex. Books. Romance. Movies. Friendship. Photography. Teaching. Coffee. (Lots of coffee.) Travel. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Memories. Experiences. Rants. Raves. Reviews. Chocolate. Mmm… chocolate. Musings of an insomniac writer. Want to know more?
