I used to be a voracious reader as well, inhaling anything with even somewhat intriguing cover copy. As I got older, school readings became more important than anything else and my love of reading dwindled under the weight of being told what to read. But my love of writing never really faded. It did, however, quickly move away from the fictional towards the introspective and autobiographical. As I grew up, and there was less of a chance that my siblings would sneaking a peek, my journal entries became much more self-reflexive, without the fear of reprisals. When I write today, it continues to be self-reflexive, and I am buoyed by all the like-minded blogs I read out there from equally introspective women. (Peruse the blogroll at the side or email me for recomendations if you’re interested.) Even my reading has turned from the fictional to the non-fictional, even so far as the autobiographical. I’m picking up The Gentle Art of Domesticity again. It’s a book I’ve owned for a while but didn’t have the energy to devote to the kind of digestion that it deserved. During this month, I think I’ll have the clarity to take it all in, especially since my own goals in life so closely reflect those pages.
My mother still thinks that I should write children’s books. It’s true that I do have a vivid imagination. But I’d much rather write about this life as I experience it. The joy and pain, the ups and downs. There’s a whole section in the library for autobiographies, mostly those of famous people who have done wonderful or terrible things. But what about the autobiographies of simple people, doing simple things? To me, those are the more important. They are the true reflections of a society, of a life, of a time. So that’s why I write, to preserve my memories as they happen. To write my own autobiography as a testament to the simple and to the good.
