I’ve somehow managed to read 9 books over the past week. Well, not quite a week yet. This just manages to make me feel guilty to for all the other weeks I wasted not reading as many books as I am obviously capable of doing. Somehow, writing furiously turns my brain into this furious machine that has to read and diet and hold meaningful conversations and be engaged in everything in life with the same amount of vigor.
My current favorite read is Writing a Book that makes a Difference, by Philip Gerard. I’m furiously taking notes, so it’s going to have to go on my Christmas list.
Yesterday Ryland finally succeeded in pulling one of the stacks of books in my room down on top of himself. My dad tried to bribe me with a bookcase. He wanted my couch in exchange, which of course was impossible, because I write on my couch, I organize at my desk and I sleep in my bed.
The books reside everywhere because they are not merely inanimate objects but companions silently cheering me forward in my quest.
I’ve somehow commited myself to going to Institute tonight. Thank God for the miracle of Klonopin. Hopefully I can make it through and make some progress in figuring out this whole spirituality thing.
I had a good talk with Bree & Sandra last night, but it’s still so hard to explain where I’m at when it’s so deeply layered that I can’t see all the dimensions of it. I’m trying to take things step by step and just straining in the dark for the echo of footsteps leading me forward.
Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain I tell myself as I hurry further down the rabbit hole.