Love and Books

On chilly days when I'm beginning to remember just how cold winter is going to be, I love to make myself a cup of tea, wrap up in sweaters and slippers and blankets, and curl up by a heater. Ginger tea is especially good because (a) it warms me up, (b) there's a new yoga pose on each box, and (c) there are little fortune-cookie type sayings attached to each bag. Today's cup of gingery goodness informed me that "Where there is love, there is no question". Now, far be it from me to question the deep wisdom of a teamaker who has spent years perfecting her Sun Salutations, but... no questions? Really? Let's look into that. What if I were to love a guy who's totally unsuited to me? What if I loved a guy my parents hated? What if I loved a guy who didn't love me? Wouldn't there be a lot of questions in those situations? I can't imagine that there wouldn't be at least a little internal strife. I recognize that I'm pretty ignorant when it comes to love, and there's lots I don't know, but all of the knowledge I've gleaned seems to indicate that love tends to complicate things, not simplify them.

Just a thought.


And now for something completely different...

I love the written word. Love it. Passionately. When I was a kid, I spent most of my time reading. I preferred books to people. To my shame, that's the truth. I still love to read, so much so that I don't usually let myself start a new book during the semester because I know I won't get any work done until the book is finished. Sadly, this passion doesn't extend to legal cases and academic writing. I'm beginning to wonder whether some strange process beginning in late undergrad or professional school and intensifying throughout Master's and PhD programs kills people's ability to write interesting and comprehensible stuff. Judges, professors, law students, and government workers are some of the worst writers I've ever encountered. It's truly depressing that this is the world I might end up in.

I think I'm going to start writing stories. My roommate has pointed out that I come up with tons of bizarre and wildly improbable explanations for pretty much everything that happens to us in the course of the day. I think what she's implying is that I should stop pestering her with absurd suggestions for why someone hasn't called (for example, "he's probably secretly got a harem in Lichtenstein and is busy trying to keep the peace among his seven wives and 54 kids") and find another way of exorcising the possibilities (and impossibilities) that are constantly running through my head. Someone else recently encouraged me to harness those creative energies and take writing more seriously. I think I will. I'll keep you all updated.