It’s 8:30 am., Thursday. The TV hums in the living room. Every so often I hear a distinct word. Probably YouTube. My husband is up. I still lounge in bed and think. And read. And read, then think some more. And write this.
Lend Me Your Character, by Dubravka Ugresic. It’s hilarious in parts. A lot about cliches. Cliches in life and cliches in books. She might be my new favorite writer; until next week, when I read a new favorite. Ugresic passed away last year. So, no more new books, but she wrote a few while she lived. Anyway, this book is excellent. I love it.
I want to write a book. Maybe. Not for anyone to see, but just for me so I can say I did. Or maybe just a novella. In a real notebook on paper in my own handwriting. Part fairy tale, part real. But what hasn’t already been written?
I daydream. I’m rapt; Edgar Degas’ Dancers In Pink. A photo in a catalogue, a print on my wall over the fireplace. Pink tulle. I had a dress like this twenty years ago. It might still fit if it’s here somewhere, and I can find it. My pen is poised over the first page of an as yet empty lined journal. I cannot write a single sentence. I replace my blue pen with a black one.
I manage to write two sentences halfway down the page.
They are, One of the Dancers In Pink whispers to me. She says, Emily, you should write about art; about the man who paints us.
I think about that for a minute. Perhaps I’ll do just that. Tracy Chevalier did it in Girl With a Pearl Earring. Susan Vreeland did it in Luncheon of the Boating Party. But not about Degas. About Johannes Vermeer and Pierre-Auguste Renoir, respectively. One of my favorite things is to get lost in a painting. Tomorrow. I’ll start tomorrow. I also like to procrastinate. I put my pen and journal away. I go to my couch and sit, my calico cat, Alice beside me. I begin reading, The Metamorphosis, by Franz Kafka.
*
Kate finishes her ham and cheese omelette and coffee. It’s 6:30 pm. Sometimes she likes to have breakfast for supper. She rinses and stacks the dishes, but they can be washed later. Time to get down to the business of reading. She has a stack of five books waiting on the end table next to her couch. Which to choose. A plethora of delicious choices.
She has so many excellent tomes, but she had to narrow it down. She sits, lays her hand atop the pile. Her cat, Elise, named for Fur Elise, the Bagatelle in A Minor, by Beethoven, watches from the Boston rocker.
Two of the five books she has previously read, but three she hasn’t. One, The Brothers Karamazov, she read in school. Another, Three Day Road, by Joseph Boyden, she read five years ago. It was recommended by then boyfriend, Shane. It’s excellent. Possibly time for a reread. Then three new to her novels. Patron Saint of Liars, by Ann Patchett, A Room With a View, by E.M. Forster, and A Pale View of the Hills, by Kazuo Ishiguro. It takes a few minutes. Kate thinks. She finally chooses Ishiguro. It’s a shorter novel, but she loves his writing, especially his book, When We Were Orphans.
Kate looks at Elise, and Elise blinks her approval. Before she begins reading, even though it’s early, Kate changes into her blue satin robe and fuzzy white slippers. These are her plans for the evening and into the night. To read with a glass of Chardonnay while Elise naps. No blaring television.
*
It’s Wednesday morning, December 10th. Jocelyn does her morning hour long commute to work. She works at Enigmatic Pecans, a nut grower and seller. Jocelyn is the receptionist and primary marketer and order filler. It’s a small company, but it does excellent business. Its owner, Phil Folsom is a good guy and a good friend of hers. There’s not a lot of room for growth for Joss with Phil’s company, but she doesn’t care. The hours aren’t long. She has an hour for lunch every day. That means plenty of time for her first loves, books and reading. Well her other first love, actually her first-first love, is her Collie, Charlotte. Charlotte currently lounges across the backseat of Joss’s car. She gets to come to work with Joss, and keep her company in the office every day. Another perk of the job. The best one of all. People ask Jocelyn why Phil named his company Enigmatic Pecans. She says he just came up with it on a whim. It means nothing in particular. There’s nothing particularly puzzling about nuts. Phil is just a whimsical guy. And Phil knows a lot about books. A lot.
This is Christmastime, and chestnuts, not pecans or walnuts, or pistachios or almonds are in demand. There is that Christmas Song, after all. All about roasting them and whatnot. There won’t be a lot of time to read or walk Charlotte at lunchtime. Joss has a half hour left of her drive. She decides to try the audio version of Madame Bovary. Hardly Christmasy, but if she doesn’t like it, she can always listen to The Blue Carbuncle, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. There’s nothing quite like a great Sherlock Holmes tale.
She’s ten minutes in, and decides she likes Flaubert’s classic. It will take more than a few commutes to work to get through it though.
When Joss and Charlotte arrive at the office, Phil isn’t around. Everything is in order on her desk, just the way she likes it, and Phil started a fire in the fireplace knowing she’d be right on time. Charlotte gets comfy in her bed, and Joss notices four new books to the right of her desk blotter. Phil brings books to her once a month or so, to keep as long as she wants. Like she doesn’t have enough books at home already. They all look interesting.
… The second book from the bottom looks the most interesting. It’s a nonfiction. Adriatic, by Robert Kaplan. The others are classic mysteries, one of which Joss has read.
She wonders if there’s a way she could read books for a living…
Rebellious Hazelnuts 