I am reading a book called The Home Made Life. What is great about this book is that it is by a woman who started a blog 5 years ago called Orangette and while she is still writing, it has morphed into a book. Her blog is centered around food and the stories that accompany her memories of food. Am I hoping for some morphage? Yes. I think so. But once again, I don't take myself too seriously and doubt that what I have to say could fill a book.
I had this interesting conversation with a good friend who has a young son with anxiety and Asperger's. Someone had passed on a book to her about someone in a similar situation. She wasn't getting much out of it. "Why?" is what I wanted to know.
"Well, it's the same shit, but a different home, a different kid, but it's all the same. She is living my life and I don't want to read about my life. I need to learn something new. There was nothing new for me."
I asked, "Isn't there comfort in knowing you are not alone?"
"Well, yes. But I know that already. I know that without reading a book. It won't change how difficult my child is or how long my days can be."
For some unknown reason this made me very sad. I want to believe that books can help people, and as teacher of writing, I have professed to so many students that we all have a story to tell and our stories matter. Now here was this friend, someone I consider an adopted sister, telling me that other people's stories don't help her. Now I know she wasn't dissing this entire idea. She was actually just speaking of personal preference. I've had this conversation with people in the store. If they want to read a book, they want to learn something new or go somewhere they have never been before.
Which gets me back to me and this writing thing and where I want to go with it. Honestly, I wouldn't pick up a book by a 42 year old white woman with 2 kids telling tales of her life. Unless she lived in say, France or Italy, while her husband was following some crazy passion. Or she was left destitute and had to find her way into the working world again and spent time sleeping in homeless shelters. There would have to be some hook that stood out. Which is where I think- I have no hook. I am as average as you can get. This is not a cry for encouragement. It's just me musing, me asking the questions I ask all the time. I am having fun. I feel guilty for that. With bills to pay and classes to take and mouths to feed, many people are NOT having fun right now. On that note, I think I will clean some toilets for a shot of reality.
P.S. Check out "The Dog Slept Fine"!