So, as I've mentioned, I'm moving this weekend. And if you're a fellow writer/literary freak such as myself, or if you happen to know one personally, then you know that we hate moving because it forces us to go through the thousands and thousands of books and papers and magazines and notebooks and clippings we've hoarded since the last time we moved. Trend shows I normally put off this part of packing until it's much too late. Last year my friends and family had to start up a search party in order to find me a few days later, on the floor of my bedroom, buried under every piece of fiction and non-fiction I'd written between the years 2000 and 2006.
Of course it's understandable that I would hang on to most of the odds and ends I've written myself. But on top of that, I probably have hundreds of articles and short stories, poems, etc. that I did not write. And maybe I haven't even gone back and read them in years and years, but I still keep them. And what's more is, every time I'm forced pare the stack down to a file folder or two, I just can't seem to bring myself to throw them out.
Not sure what I'm saving them for. To share with friends, perhaps. Or maybe it's both inspiring and comforting to me to be surrounded by such great writing. Same situation with my shelves and shelves of books. I seldom re-read books, I just like having them there, at my fingertips. As the true bibliophiles will swear, the right books really can become like friends to you.
And yet, having said that, I can guarantee you I won't be talking so lovey-dovey about my journals and books come Saturday, after I've transported my umpteenth box of them halfway across town and up two flights of stairs.
The first words out of my mouth on Sunday will most likely be "back surgery."
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