I’ve always loved bookstores. I’m not sure what it is about them exactly (well, beyond the books. I = book lover) but they have always been, by far, my store of choice. Even as a kid I was obsessed with them. Walden Books was an absolute must during every shopping trip to the mall. I went so far as to forgo a typical allowance and each week exchange chores for the promise of my choice of book from the local bookstore. Needless to say I had a lot of books.
However, in an effort to avoid a tendency towards hoarding I’ve stopped purchasing physical books in recent years having sold out to Kindle and its promises of a hoarder free life (or at least a hidden hoarding problem, Better living through secret hoarding). But the other day I was buying a present that required a real live bookstore and I totally had one of those super cheesy, made for TV movie style epiphanies. I’d found the book I needed and was wandering aimlessly through the store when it dawned on me that
Every single one of these books was written by a person.
No shit, right. I’m a genius. Hold your applause.
But no really, there are THOUSANDS of different books in every bookstore and they were all written by people like me who had nothing but a tickle of a dream, a sliver of talent and a shitload of love for the art of writing. These thousands of books were once just blank pieces of papers or empty word docs. And even better? There are thousands of REALLY FRICKING WEIRD BOOKS. I mean weird books on subjects I don’t even think are actually real things (and people apparently even buy them). But those books still exist–they were still written by an actual human being and THAT gives me hope that maybe, just maybe, I can be one of those weird people whose blank page and shitload of love produces something that makes it on the shelf.
An Awkwardly Magnificent Life 