Today was rather successful, all things considered.
I went to the library and got six books and five movies, so I feel like the next two days will be spent in hibernation, in my hoodie, on my bed, trying to read as much as I can. (I don’t feel guilty about this at all, because for the last two days I’ve been painting the doors of our pantry with my mum. I’m also going to a new church on Sunday, so I feel like I deserve this time even more because I’m actually going out and trying something new at the end of the week. And by reading a lot until then, I’ll be super energised to meet new people. In theory.)
The library was nice. So nice.
It’s quiet, people don’t try and talk to me or sell me products, I can literally just walk around in my own time at my own pace and look at any book I want to. And the fact that it’s free?
You know, I used to buy a book if I wanted it, would end up reading it once and then donating it. But the library is so much better, because you can just read it and if it’s not that good, it’s okay because you didn’t pay for it! You can hand it back and someone out there can read it who might actually enjoy it. So the library is pretty much magic.
What frustrates me about books though, and this is such a weird thing, is when the author says something that’s been in my mind for weeks but I haven’t figured out how to word it yet. It feels like they take my thoughts out of my brain and I can no longer make them my own without feeling like I’m stealing them. And sometimes I like this because it makes me connect to the book, to the character, to the author, but other times it’s like are you kidding me I’ve been dwelling on this for weeks and haven’t been able to word it as good as you just did.
None of this stops me from reading; in fact, I often find it inspiring (however frustrating) because it beckons the world of writing to me. If someone has written an amazing sentence or paragraph that I can relate to, I find that it motivates me to just write and see what happens. It motivates me to continue working on my novel, even when it feels dry. It motivates me to write better and to not just leave a sentence as is, but to work on it and make it more poetic, more elegant, more descriptive (this doesn’t often happen within my blog; perhaps I should work on this more…)
When I go to the library, I often don’t have an idea of what I want to borrow. I currently only have three books on my to-be-read list, and they’re all books that aren’t published yet or are so recent the library won’t see them for another seven years. So I go to the library with open hands and little expectation, though I often leave happier than when I arrived.
So guess what I’ll be doing for the rest of the night? (Hint: it has to do with the fresh pile of books sitting next to my bed…)