Feeling slightly naked…

I am having a moment of weakness…and unlike whatever thoughts the title might imply, no, it isn’t that kind of moment.  Amongst all the other things that I do and am relatively (at least in my own mind) good at, my one, pure, simple claim to fame is that I am a bibliophile.  Now, I understand that there are hundreds of thousands of us out there.  Luddites who, forsaking this information revolution—and yes I understand the irony of writing a blog about being a Luddite—have cast aside the Kindle as the bane of the book’s existence.  I love to read.  I love to learn.  I love knowledge, even as useless as the knowledge I have can often be.

So why do I feel naked?  Simply put.  I am in Connectict.  My books are packed away in boxes and collecting dust in my grandmother’s attic back in Iowa.  I miss my books.  I miss the comfort they give me.  Why this moment of pining for what I have but don’t?  Well, I am a nerd.  I came to Connecticut for a job and have ended up in graduate school once again.  Now, however, I’m in the midst of research papers, presentations and projects and the books that I want, the books that I need so desperately, are all sitting in boxes collecting dust in my grandmother’s attic.

Is it strange that I should find so much comfort in such a banal thing?  Or that I should feel so desperately alone without them?  I’ll admit that the thing I’m probably missing is my life back in Iowa (though, knowing what I want to do my research projects on and knowing that I own the book that would really help but not having the title or author in order to check it out from the library since my copy is in Iowa is also quite frustrating).  My life wasn’t easier there, in fact, it’s probably much easier here.  I’m good at my job, I find this graduate school to be much easier than the graduate school I left (whether that’s due to the strength of program, the copious amounts of free time I have here to devote to studying, or that after six years in college I finally have the whole thing down, I haven’t decided just yet…though I’m leaning toward a mix of the three), and things are, in general, much easier here.

But life was so much more fulfilling before.  I’m stuck in a routine that I don’t enjoy, but love to pieces (is that odd?).  I spend my weekends studying, and am now so far ahead in all of my classes that I feel like I’m breezing through them.  I spend my days with a mix of work and school but the balance is enjoyable and still leaves me with a good amount of ‘free time’…which I have devoted to extracurricular scholastic reading.  And I spend every Saturday evening at a local sports bar catching up on my favorite games and enjoying a burger, or chicken fingers, depending on what mood strikes my fancy.  It’s all very easy, very simple, and when I should be sitting back enjoying the ride I just can’t bring myself to do that.

Maybe what I’m missing is companionship?  I’ve thought this time and again.  Maybe that’s why I spend so much time consumed by my books.  I have devoted the time, attention and energy it takes to categorize them by author, then title.  I’ve recategorized them by the classes they were purchased for.  I have even gone so far as to sort them chronologically from date of purchase or first perusal.  But are these ‘friends’ of mine, these words and worlds that I so enjoy escaping into, just substitutes for the real friends that I’m lacking here?

I’m a social person.  I am.  Despite my nerd tendencies, I consider myself to be quite open, gregarious, friendly, funny, etc.  All those social attributes that one would think would allow me to walk away with numerous friends in my new habitat…and if not friends, acquaintances at least.  And yet, what do we find?  No one.  The one person in Connecticut that I claim as a friend is my roommate.  Beyond her, the only social interaction I have on a day to day basis (not counting random ‘water cooler’ work moments) is my Saturday night sports sabbatical at the bar.

I am a loner by necessity.  I am not a loner by choice.  I like companionship.  I like people.  I want to be able to share things with someone else and have them understand not only what I am going through, but why, in my twisted, over-burdened, book laden, mind I think that I’m going through it.  I don’t think that type of connection is impossible, I don’t even consider it improbable.  Unfortunately, I do think that for me, that someone isn’t in Connecticut.

I want my books.  I want to feel at home.  And so, I find myself feeling slightly naked…

I’m Perfect in Every Way Except that I’m Conceited

It occurred to me this evening as I was milling about the internet that I should write a blog.  I don’t know what this blog will be about, or whether anyone will bother to read it, but it seemed like fun.  After all, I am one of scores of English majors who wants to be a writer, whether I have the talent, ability or drive, can be up for much negotiation, but this seemed like as good a place as any to start.

I am, and will always be, fascinated by literature.  If I own nothing else in my lifetime I will own books.  They’re fantastic things.  Perfect for those hours, minutes, or days of open time that I sometimes find lying about (or aboot as my Canadian friend might say—you know who you are).   I don’t know whether or not I’m a fan of the kindle, though I do enjoy audiobooks so that seems like a general progression in this modern iAge.

Still, it’s the feel of the thing.  The smell of it.  The physical weight.  Even turning pages.  It’s a very euphoric experience for me, especially in the winter.  There’s nothing better than a good book, a cup of hot tea or cocoa, and a cozy corner just close enough to the window that I can watch the snow fall, but just far enough away that I’m out of the draft (crappy windows).

Perhaps then, it’s only natural that I write a blog.  Despite my affinity toward luddites, I am one of the many who use google as a verb, can’t be without my iPod for more than a few moments, and has more than one email account.  I’m a product of the twenty-first century but I won’t ever forget my roots…and those roots are deeply embedded in a good book.

So perhaps this is where I’ll expound on literature, or my life, but either way, I’m writing…which is literary in itself…and along the way perhaps I’ll inadvertantly fulfill my life long desire of being a writer—not to be confused with being an author.  I hope you take a moment, forgive my mistakes along the way (like starting a sentence with “so”—yes, I know it’s wrong but that’s what I felt like doing) and perhaps, just perhaps, read what I’ve written.