For the love of books

I used to be an avid reader. There were a few years I read 75-100 books, and I don't consider myself a fast reader. I just love the written word and couldn't get enough of it. I even wrote a book blog for a while, keeping track of everything I read and writing a number of reviews.

The past several years I haven't been able to stay with a book, probably due to pain and pain meds sapping my energy and concentration. There's also been my obsession with the news and television (which I watch on my laptop). But last week a couple of things conspired to snap me out of it - after the Kavanaugh hearings, I couldn't bear to watch any news, not even my beloved Daily Show or Colbert. I can't even open Facebook right now. It all sickened me. I turned to a book that someone had recommended - Every Note Played, a novel by Lisa Genova - about a concert pianist who contracts ALS. It is painfully beautiful prose, detailing his loss and grief through the progression of the disease. It hit close to home in the surrender to the losses (though mine are nowhere near that horrible disease), but I was somehow able to distance myself from it enough to be engrossed in the writing and the story. There were moments of humor as well as the heartache, like this moment that had me chortling:

She was ecstatic to see the wheelchair go. In her 32 years in the real estate business she says that nothing ruined the feng shui of a home more than a power wheelchair.

(Genova also wrote Still Alice, a novel about Alzheimer disease; I have it on my shelf but haven't read it yet.) I whipped through the book in a few days - I think it's the first book I've actually finished for a few years. (Exception: Born a Crime by Trevor Noah.)

A small sampling of what awaits.

I scanned my shelves - filled with unread books - for another candidate and pulled out a Rose Tremain book, Sacred Country. I remember loving other books of hers, and I was immediately drawn into the story and writing. How's this for the turn of a phrase: The infinitesimally small but telltale feeling of bruising on the inner thighs that accompanied desire….
Oh my.

I've been almost giddy with my renewed love of good writers who craft stories, paint pictures both beautiful and ugly, create phrases that sing on the page. Perhaps now I will be inspired to get back to my own writing. 

Next up: I found myself in Powell's Books yesterday and spotted a new Isabel Allende novel, In the Midst of Winter. She is among my top five favorite authors, so I didn't hesitate to pop it into my basket. I almost started it right away, but knew I probably wouldn't get back to the Tremain book if I did, so it sits on my desk, waiting patiently, a delicious treat to savor one day soon.

I have a lot of catching up to do!