Monday the 25th was Virginia Woolf’s birthday.  I recently bought a copy of “A Room of One’s Own”  and it is on my bedside table.  I can’t believe I haven’t read it before.  It’s been on a “To Read Someday” list.  Maybe I’ll start it today.

 A “To Read Someday” List…I just realized that I have one.  I wonder what else is on the list.  I know there are books on the bookshelf I haven’t gotten around to reading and of course there are the new ones coming out all the time.  And, then there is the discovery of a new author who, once I read something they have written, I am pretty sure I’ll buy their next book.  So, I guess this list evolves as my life does.  The books shape my life in their own way and what is going in my life may direct what I am drawn to read at any given time.

Over the years I have reflected on how reading and writing have been so central to who I am.  I grew up around books, my parents and grandparents had a bookstore when Mother was pregnant with me (if my calculations are right). Anyway, I remember the store from when I was little and roaming up and down its aisles.  Mother was an English teacher, Minnie always writing something, and bookcases lined every available wall in the houses I grew up in, as they do in my own home today.  There was no such things as a “banned book” in our house. “Read it if you must” Mother would say but then she and I would talk about it; why had I wanted to read it, did I get anything out of it”?  There was the library and the bookmobile that came down the street once every week or so.  I always checked out the maximum number of books allowed.  And, gifts from my parents and grandparents were often books…of course!

I had “diaries” when I was growing up.  They were the little books with a lock and key and thin, tight lines.  There wasn’t much room for reflection; usually only a listing of daily events.  I wrote in notebooks over the years and collected pages of quotes, questions, poetry; things that whispered or screamed to me things like “pay attention” or “what does this mean?”  Then there were times when a counselor or therapist “suggested” I write out the thoughts and feelings that were whirling around in my head and heart.  It always seemed to help.  In a previous life I worked as a counselor and found that sharing my experiences with both reading and writing often led others to find a path, a connection, or some clarity for their own journey.

And, so now I wonder how all of this has shaped me?  Why do I so fondly (hard to believe) remember my freshman English class in high school where the final was a 15 question essay test on a short story?  And, there were no right or wrong answers!  Why do I have to mark up my books with my own thoughts, reflections or questions and why do I rarely leave home without my journal?  Why are there books by the bedside table and on the floor by the couch?  And, why do I love working in a bookstore?   Because I know that my life has been profoundly shaped by reading and writing.  And, now this romp into a blog…well, I’m curious to see what new nuance, wrinkle, or wiggle comes forth.