I took a long awaited venture to Barnes and Noble Sunday. It felt right. There was a certain energy pulling me there, secondary to the "mission" to spend the gift card my co-workers so generously gave me for my birthday. Sometimes I am overwhelmed when I peruse the shelves, hunting for a diamond in the rough. But Sunday was a day to reach out and feel energy in that place. Odd, isn't it?
And it wasn't even any solid inspiration... just creative energy that inspired me to go home and continue with my own projects... a calming, soothing reassurance that my novel is just as worthy (don't know how it convinced me), just as different and fantastic as that store full of books.
Someone told me recently, "There is such thing as a library, you know." And while libraries are wonderful, there is something about having my own pantheon of books waiting for me at home in an overcrowded bookcase. It is undefinable... but it is just one other little thing that keeps me writing.
Yes, there's definitely something about bookstores - like art museums, I find - that makes me want to go home and write. Lately it's been falling off a bit, since I've developed my terror of finding my book already written, but I also find that if I stick with things that CLEARLY aren't like it (nature writing, non-fiction, medieval history, sci-fi, fairy tale retellings, etc etc etc) then I get jazzed without feeling threatened. :) I just have to keep away from things like Ken Follet's latest and Umberto Eco. Even Salman Rushdie gave me a scare one time!
ReplyDeleteby the by, I'm glad you added that picture. yorkshire, yes?
ReplyDeleteYes, it be Yorkshire! I also have a blurring cool-looking heath/moor one, but this one matched yours better!
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