Right now, there are about 44 unread novels collecting dust on my bookcase. On my nightstand there is a pile of The New Yorkers, one for each week since mid-February. Accompanying these are 70 “to-reads” on my Goodreads list and another 20 on my Barnes & Noble wishlist.
And I haven’t had time to read a single one.
Even now, I’m trying to scramble together some form of coherent thought while planning what outfit I’ll be wearing to this ceremony in an hour and a half.
Yet I somehow found the time to count all those books.
Anyway, lately it’s been feeling like I’m always racing, racing, racing. And all I can think about is how I want to go back to that time when I felt like the world couldn’t move fast enough, and I had ample time to relax, relax, relax.
But that’s not the way of life, is it?
Yet somehow authors are expected to be well-versed in all manner of books and genres. We need to be eloquent in our replies and have that sophisticated air about us that just reeks of cool collectedness.
But who has time for that when there is life to be lived?
But who has time for life when there are books to be read, worlds to be explored, and art to be created?
It seems to be a generally accepted rule in the writing world that the more a writer reads, the better a writer writes. Yet I would like to meet a writer who has time to juggle family life, personal life, and the writing life, who has mastered this balance so easily.
I would like to ask how they did it. I want to ask because I want to be them. I want to sleep all day and read novels and write novels and get lost in my head and attend fancy dinner parties with other like-minded artists and I want to live.
I want to be immersed in the kind of world only book characters have the pleasure to live in.
But I can’t. I can’t because I’m the writer and I create them. I create their perfect world and their perfect lives because I can’t but I need to. Somehow.
But who has time for that?
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