I'm going back to cowledge this
I don't get it. They're heavy; I'll never have the time to read/re-read them what with all the reading I'll be doing for classes, essay writing, working, and manuscript revisions. Also, socializing. If you don't socialize in cowledge it can be pretty unbearable. Still though, I packed up my Steinbeck boxset, my Faulkner boxset, complete collections of O'Connor, all the Palahniuks and Heims and McCarthys and Oates and about twenty or so more novels that simply CANNOT be left behind. Am I crazy?
There's such a safety in these books, such a gathering of home. They're all kind of my friends, I guess. They're your grandmother's pillow you took after her funeral. They're your mother's perfume when you're all grown up and she's gone, but boy does that smell take you back. Does this make sense? Am I dumb?
When a friend saw all my piled books they said, "When will you ever have time for casual reading?"
I hate the phrase "casual reading" and if anyone ever uses it to describe my manuscript when it grows up to be a novel (I've decided that WILL happen) I might cry. No reading should be casual. Fiction must be jarring, has to grab you by the neck and rattle you to a world away from your living room so that you can understand your living room.
All novels must not only abduct you to be a success, they must also bring to you Stockholm Syndrome.
What's casual about that?
Thanks for reading,