April 17, 2018

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I have reader’s block.
I stared at the bookshelf, reading and rereading book jacket after book jacket.
Nothing. No excitement, no heart flutters … pure emotional silence.

Perhaps it’s the genre?
Maybe I need something lighter, funny?
Or suspense-filled, historic … even a classic?

I ran my fingertips over the book spines I lovingly selected last month at Shakespeare and Company. I had cradled them to my chest as I wandered the murky Seine to my pied-a-terre, rain and night falling around me. Like a child alone in a candy store, I anticipated devouring each and every translated title in a heightened frenzy. Unlocking the door, I shook off the rain and tucked the treasures in my luggage only to stow them on my crowded bookshelf once I returned home.

I feared I had lost my mind or at least my identity.
Since first reading at four, books had been my constant companions.
Friends come & go, family moves away, lovers’ change and children grow.
But books never cease.

On Saturday, I had enough.
I rearranged my library and alas, today, I selected a new read.
Leila Slimani’s Lullaby, ironically picked up on that memorable Paris stroll.
I’m counting the hours until I can settle in and turn the first page.
Perhaps I’m cured?