Never Enough Time for My Book—Or Yours
Hello and welcome (again) to I Have Notes! It means a lot that you’ve elected to spend a little time with it each week, and I’m so excited to get to talk with you—even though technically, officially, I had planned to be on book leave right now.
You were warned that I would chat with you about my writing and reading, two areas of my life that frequently lack the order I crave. Take reading: I’m always in the middle of about 10 books. Every room in my house contains either an overflowing bookshelf or another piece of furniture I pile books upon, despite that furniture being constructed for another purpose. I’ve been putting off going to the post office, because I suspect my box is full of more books—books I wanted—many of which will join the little Stonehenge of stacks on my office rug.
Given all the places where I can and do store books, it might seem like an insult if your debut novel—the one you labored over for a decade before anxiously, breathlessly releasing it into the world—lands on the floor of my office. But according to the twisted locational reading hierarchy under which I live, shelves are for books I’ve already read, or those I want to read but don’t see myself starting soon, while my desk, my kitchen table,, is what I’m saying? I put it there so I can’t forget about it!
