Friday, January 09, 2009
Normally, this would not be remarkable. But I don’t remember the last fiction book I read. And I don’t even remember the last non-fiction book I completed. For some reason, I’ve been alienated from reading. Strange choice of words, I know, but apt. Books have just seemed strange recently. If I can even manage to pick one up (I feel panicked when trying to choose a book from my library, even from those I’ve read and reread. I don’t know if it’s indecision or fear that I won’t get the security / information / entertainment / whatever it is I’m seeking from the book), I can manage a sentence, then I am compelled to put it down and keep wandering the house trying to find something to do that will keep my mind off the query letters I should be researching and writing for my own book. My library is like an alien planet that I’ve crash-landed on. I’ve been there long enough to recognize the terrain – it’s familiar, but it will never be home. I feel like I have no way to leave and no home planet to return to even if I could leave. The walls of colored rectangles, the craters where backpacks or magazines rested, since removed, leaving splotches of carpet surrounded by clutter; the desk and bookshelf and file cabinet that jut into the center of the room, that I tiptoe around to get to my new high-tech looking scanner and printer – it all feels wrong. I want my home back.
Yes, I’m scared to write to agents asking them to represent my book. I don’t know if that’s normal. Probably. But I hate competing against other people, and I hate asking other people to judge me.