…although I am currently simultaneously reading Skippy Dies, by Paul Murray (semi-literary, charmingly whimsical, overly ironic book club-style fiction), Dark Inquiry, by Deanna Raybourn (total masturbatory fodder for female and gay male former English lit majors whose soul sucking office jobs leave them unwilling to expend the effort required for reading actual Victorian literature–why can’t I look away!?!), and The Crossing, by Cormac McCarthy (a counter balancing work designed to keep me from imploding in a cloud of purple sparkles). I’ll let you guess which of these three titles I’m most likely to finish first.
In fact, until yesterday I haven’t really had much time for reading, what with packing up all my stuff, moving it to a new house and then (beginning) to unpack it again. After the long weekend certain rooms are starting to look semi-presentable (bathroom, bedroom) while others (kitchen, office) have a pretty long way to go.
I have not even begun unpacking my books, except for the poetry and plays (by far the smallest section) and the old notebooks which I shoved, unopened, into the shelves beneath to my desk. I am fairly positive there won’t be room for half the fiction. I sold several big shopping bags full of old stuff to Green Apple and abandoned another whole bag at Borderlands–but then I went ahead and spent all my store credit (and then some) on a collected Rilke, the newest William Trevor, and a bunch of greeting cards for assorted upcoming family holidays.
Oh well. Pictures to follow (as soon as things are a bit more organized).
About a year ago, I decided that the book publishing business isn’t for me, after all–at least not in it’s super-giant semi-evil conglomerate incarnation. A hard choice, since being an editor at a major house had been my goal for like 10 years. All those unpaid internships. Long days, strange hours, crap salaries, crazy bosses, weird corporate upsets, reorg after reorg after reorg. All the stuff I gave up so I could work, including, for a long time, my own writing. Not to mention the not-insignificant list of things I completely loved about my job.
It look me almost that whole year to decide on my next step, and to act on it. I registered to take the GRE the day I found out about the third reorganization at my company in as many years. Then I spent the next twelve months filling out job applications and university applications and loan applications and the FAFSA.
But when everything was in place and it was finally time to make the changes I’d been working toward it was hard to really enjoy it. In quitting my job I felt like a traitor. I adored my authors (most of them). Still do. I felt terrible leaving them all to their own devices. And my boss. I cried when I told him I was quitting. I felt so guilty, I couldn’t help it.
And now finally my first semester of library school is about to begin. I’m eager to get started, hopeful that this will turn out to be a better fit for me, relieved, honestly, just to be doing something proactive, uncertain (still) about my decision.
I don’t exactly think there’s something I’m “supposed” to be doing. But it’s still hard to believe there isn’t a right answer somewhere.