The sheer purity of a bookstore, I believe, is the most beautiful thing. Period. And all I got to see today was a Waldens. Waldenbooks with it's crowded aisles and odd categories. David Sedaris is in fiction. Ann Coulter is in social science. Al Franken's Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them is relegated to humor. And Lindsay Lohan's breasts, courtesy of GQ, are more visible than James Joyce.

And yet. I love it.

It's messed up and silly. Sort of like me.

I hate the job hunt. There. I said it. I'm really miserable. Beating my head into this imaginary wall that is my own ridiculous will and high standards. I'm impatient. I'm anxious. I feel myself stretching and squirming inside my skin like a cat on a sun-bathed couch. Except cats love sunbathing on their sofa of choice. I do not like this churning.

I've been trying to start writing a book since January. I have these fabulous ideas. And I pontificate (to John) at great length. I am stuffy and snobbish and intellectual and beautiful. I can feel it. I started this on our honeymoon.

I sit, comfortably, computer in lap, and stare at this great white glowing empty Word document. And it stares back with the intensity of curry sauce at an Indian restaurant with white table cloths and long-stemmed water glasses. I am Kraft mac 'n cheese.

No. I am Easy Mac.

I am emotionally and creatively unprepared for life as an unemployed "workin' girl." Someone give me a job and a book deal! Wiggle your nose! Fold your arms and through your head down so your ponytail slaps your forehead! I am not Mary Tyler Moore. I have been misinformed.

I went to a bookstore today. I spun myself in like a cocoon. When I came out, my wings were sticky and I stumbled around like a top spinning off its course. My eyes were blurry and my feelers overloaded.

I want to fly.

Labels: books.

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