That’s right, currently reading. I realize I am a bit late to the party.
It’s not that I didn’t know about the party, it’s even worse. I heard about the party a while ago and decided it probably wouldn’t be that great. Then, stayed home to wash my hair.
But thanks to Jen, I am finally reading Eat Pray Love.
As I flipped open to the first page, I assumed that reading this would make me want to travel. To take a year off, ditch my job, drop my dog off at the farm (literally), pack a bag and get on the first flight out of here. It didn’t.
It didn’t make me want to take up meditation or find God either.
But it did inspire me. It made me want to write.
Not to write a bestseller, or even a book for that matter. Just to write.
To scribble some words in one of the many notebooks I fill with doodles. To grab a pen and start those thank you notes I’ve been putting off since Christmas. To write in my blog.
So, that’s where I’m starting. Right here on my blog.
Since I moved to New York I’ve had more time to read. I spend my commute in both directions perfecting the art of reading on the subway. Skillfully establishing room for my book on a crowded subway. Artfully turning the page with one hand. Rarely dropping my book and cursing as I try to pick it up without losing my balance.
I’ve also wanted to read more here. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s the fact that the mountains aren’t looking down on me, judging me for choosing to stay inside instead of doing something adventurous. Maybe it’s because this city is exhausting. Some nights when I get home, I can’t look at another screen. These nights are my favorite. I turn off my computer, curl up with a glass of wine (and probably a bowl of popcorn) and escape into my book.
I’ve always loved reading, even before I knew how. I remember being jealous when my older brother was learning to read in school. In true younger sibling fashion, I had to have what he had. It wasn’t fair, I wanted to read too! I cried to my mom. I even stole my brother’s homework and hid out in my room, trying to decode those jumbled letters. I would pretend to read while I sat there in my room. Just looking at the pages in front of me, speaking gibberish to my teddy bears. I even loved pretending to read. (Nerd cred? I think so.)
From the beginning, I was hooked.
I love all kinds of books. I feel like that is something that people say when they don’t really mean it. Maybe I don’t really mean it either. But I do know that I like reading books for all sorts of different reasons. Some are meant to inspire, like Eat Pray Love. Others are purely for entertainment. Or escape. Sometimes I’m embarrassed for loving a book, for getting caught up in the story (yup, I’m talking about you, Twilight), but I’ve rarely met a book I didn’t like.
I still have 100 pages left in Eat Pray Love. One hundred more pages to be inspired by. I’m not sure what’s next, but I’m always open to suggestions.









