the liberry

Sunday I went to the library.  I love the library like a fat kid loves cake.  Seriously…the smell, the shelves, the people watching.  The entire experience is nearly spiritual for me.  Anyway, I spent a while there, and I started thinking about how I choose books and something I would do if I were an author.   

To be fair (to myself), I already DO believe I’m an author, but only in my mind, and even then I like to imagine myself wearing fancy scarves or horned rimmed glasses.  I digress. So, I started thinking about how I tend to look for the same authors or in the same places when I go to the library.  I am a fan of Elizabeth Berg, Alice Hoffman, and many others, and usually I head the B or H section of the fiction books to see if there are any new offerings from my favorites.  I got lucky this time in that lately, I have been to the library so infrequently, there were a few new books I hadn’t read.   And I started to think that if I wrote a novel, I might just go by a pseudonym or rename myself altogether.  Like, perhaps, Kate Updike (imagine how many people wouldn’t find The Witches of Eastwick and would turn to me for solace). Or, how about Kate King – which would put me right before Stephen, and right near Barbara Kingsolver – two of my favorites.  I could pick something like Kate Meyer.  I wouldn’t feel badly stealing any of Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight fans. She got lucky. VERRRRRY lucky – she told a great story.  But, her writing? Terrible. I could go on and on - not only about Meyers but also about different options for my new name...

My point is this – I can’t write like these people.  Not even close - or at least I've not been lucky enough yet. But if the majority of people who frequent the library are like me, I could really win big by dropping Willaredt and going with something more accessible.  I mean, really.  Because who is reading this? I’m just saying.

parting ways

Nothing makes the earth seem so spacious as to have friends at a distance; they make the latitudes and longitudes.  ~Henry David Thoreau

There are certain emotions that even time and space cannot begin to heal.  Even as an adult, I sometimes find myself with my feelings hurt beyond what should be normal for a 35-year-old woman.  I take things way too personally, and right or wrong, I have strong opinions that I find hard to keep to myself.  All that considered, the past several weeks have been trying at best.  I haven’t been writing, and I have needed it.  I write because it makes me feel better. I write because it helps me put things into perspective.  I write because sometimes putting it on paper is easier than trying to find the words to tell one of my dearest friends that I don’t want her to move away.

Someone  I love dearly is moving away from me and from my family.  And I know it’s for good reason, and I know that it’s a wonderful opportunity for her and her new husband, but I still hate it.  There. I said it.  I hate that I won’t be able to call up last minute and ask them to join us for dinner.  We won’t be together for holidays or birthdays anymore – at least not many of them, as it’s unlikely we’ll be able to afford traveling to see each other more than once a year or so.  But most of all, I hate it for my kids.  It makes me sad that they will have two less wonderful, funny people who love them right here in this city.  I’m sad that Zoe might not remember having them here for as long as we did, and mostly I’m so, so sad to think that my girls won’t get to know their new baby cousin.  That nearly knocks the breath right out of me.

I’m being selfish. I know I am.  I’m well aware that in the Skype age we’ll be “seeing” a lot of each other and we won’t ever be more than a phone call or a text away, but still.  I’m certain they know we only wish the very best for them, no matter where this road takes them.  But that doesn’t make saying goodbye any easier.