I never seem to find the time to write. Reading can snatch me away – a stolen minute turns into a quarter of an hour. But writing seems to need to be scheduled, or I don’t do it. So I’m stealing a few minutes now, when I should be hustling to go to the fourth of July picnic.
I compose a dialog with a few bits of nearly every book I read, crimping down a page to come back and write about. But I rarely do, and what seemed urgent when I was reading it loses the context when I return. So I’m resolving to start noting a bit of my reading journey mid-stride (if you will).
Today, we finished reading Seven-Day Magic, an Edward Eager book that yields little to comment on. I’m still enjoying Mary Oliver’s poems in New and Selected Poems – I want to start writing down my favorite poems again. I started this journal to do so, but I get stymied by worrying about stealing the poems by posting htem here, so I think I’ll just make a private journal of them – I’m my best audience here, anyway…
I brought a stack of books to the hammock to decide amongst – which should I take to the picnic? Past picnics have been memorable, relaxing reads, usually biography. Also, the books I wanted to write about – Sway (the irresistible pull of irrational behavior) and the gargantuan collection of Joan Didion’s non-fiction We Tell Ourselves Stories In Order to Live, which serves as a journalistic history of the late 60’s. One thing that strikes me is the parallel between the get-rich-quick hit-or-miss gold-strike claim-jumping California of the gold rush days and modern Hollywood.
Oh well, time to go play!