There comes a point when one must decide what is more important: eating or reading?
Recently I seem to be happening across so many books I long not just to borrow from the
library, but to own for long enough to sit on a shelf above my desk and inspire me daily thereafter. Which would not be a problem were it not for the fact that I really rather must keep these thighs as well padded as they are, and occasionally pop a morsel or two into the permanently open mouth of my very own chickadee.
You see Darlings, I believe in literary serendipity: that books will find you when you need them most, and today The Artistic Mother found me at a time when it seems I am almost permanently pre-occupied by the struggle between personal creative ambition and the constant, nagging guilt that somehow my (financially essential) working life compromises my ability to be the kind of contented, focused and devoted Mother, a single-parented child should be guaranteed.
And so, because for every problem I encounter in life, for every dubious emotion I ever feel, I seek affirmation or solution between the pages of a
book, it seems I am helpless to resist another addition to my self-help shelf. As we speak The Artistic Mother is making the arduous journey from America to Liverpool, and I have no doubt, (because sadly I never doubt the written word), that a little spoon of life-changing medicine will thud through my postbox any day now.
Tis an addiction. My name is Alison May and I am addicted to books.
Tis an addiction. My name is Alison May and as a direct consequence of my addiction to books, I live on beans on toast, spiced up with a splash of worcester sauce. Or marmite. Or a sprinkle of cheese if I’m feeling flush!
Ugh. I ache to write housekeeping poetry and instead I ramble on about cheese. Too many big issues packed into one tiny post.
Forgive me, I know not what I do.
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