Maybe it's because I've seen too many sides of the business. Maybe it's because sometimes it feels too personal.
But more than once in a while, it seems like some books get published on sheer luck.
And then there are books that are sheer genius. Books that make me want to always read and write. Always. Because I couldn't live in a world that had neither.
I have read books that have frustrated me, left me with nothing more.
But then there are those stories that make the world slow down and I can see it for more than I ever had before. The world becomes bigger, and smaller. It means more. More than my tiny life could ever make of it on its own. Books that bring me out to another ledge of knowledge. Another depth of feeling. Understanding.
And I realize how big and small my own little world is. How it's full of nothing and everything at the same time.
Because even though sometimes the book was fiction, the thoughts were true. The feelings were real. And my eyes are opened a little wider.
In some ways I feel bad for devouring in hours what took months or years to write. Like Thanksgiving dinner gone in a half hour.
But it was made to be feasted on. I'm just glad I made it to the table.
And my feeble attempt to thank the strangers who have shaped my mind and life. To the multitude of authors. Thank you.
Whose Point of View?
2 days ago