|My cat has been wondering.|
Reading. Lots of reading. I'm starting to get twitchy with all of the books on my plate (desk/dining table/office floor/coffee table/living room floor). This judging gig has me feeling a bit like a TV show nutjob hunting for patterns in the stacks of data that fill my house.
The strange thing is, you do see patterns. I remember taking a Hemingway and Faulkner class in which we read something like eight of each author's major works. You really feel like you get the whole picture of what a writer is trying to say when you read that much of their writing in one chunk. I used to think you could paint a portrait of an artist by studying all of their creations.
Well, expand that to a survey of young people's lit for an entire year.
Every book is different. The style, the artwork, the plot. But I suspect if I laid it all out on the floor and looked at it from high above, I'd see a statement about our Now, this moment in time with it's wars and fashion, it's economy and politics and fears and hopes.
For now, it's all in stacks and boxes around my house, and I'm feeding data into my imagination. And I'm a little crazy from it all (see photo above). It looks like chaos, but I swear it all makes sense. And it's huge. And it's glorious.
How great is it, that people write? That books are made and shared? Oral tradition is a beautiful thing, but the written word is so intimate. A whispered secret, or a silent shout that feeds us, one at a time. And we digest it and we grow.
I will stop because now I think I sound nuttier than I want to. If I don't post for a while, it's because I'm reading. And enjoying myself every crazy step of the way.