Living each day much muchier
These tattered little books have been with me since I was 11 years old. I rarely consult them these days but they are among my dearest posessions.
They were constant companions growing up, a passport to understanding and tools for creativity. I wrote countless, unfinished novels with them. I searched them endlessly with biro inked fingers. In fact, the words I earn a living by today were probably defined by these books.
In 1993, I thought I’d lost the dictionary. I was so upset. I looked for it everywhere. My mother wondered aloud if I had lost my mind. “It’s just a dictionary,” she said. “Here, use mine.”
That wasn’t the point. Sure, these books are worthless, scuffed, plasticky bits of cheaply bound paper but that’s not all they are. The words they carry are essential.
Finding the right word has a resonance to it. It brings a simple pleasure like sunlight, melody or water.
I carry these books with me because they remind me to write. They remind me to be true to my daggy self. They remind me of who I am.
For that, I’m grateful.