“I know this is going to make me sound like a dork,” I told Scott in the kitchen the other night, excited about my plan.
He laughed a loud, short laugh. If “duh” could be translated into Laugh Language, Scott spoke it then.
I’m not afraid to embrace my geeky side.
I’m perfectly content in warm fuzzy socks crocheting my blanket and watching an old Hepburn film. (Let’s be honest, there’s not a lot of time for those things anymore, but a girl can dream.)
As I get older, I wave my Nerd Flag proudly. I’m not too concerned anymore about what people think or say. (I might have a birthday coming up and we will just blame it on my old age.)
I’ve always loved books. Novels. Poems. Magazines. Newspapers. Languages. All the loves in my life have letters and capitals and paragraphs and ledes. Even my son reading a book on his lap in the afternoon sun makes me so, so happy.
I wanted to always be surrounded by words.
I follow Lisa Jakub (Mrs Doubtfire actress) on her blog and I had to laugh out loud recently when she wrote a post that started with her watching a young child walk into a wall while their nose was in a book.
That was me!
I walked into closed doors and walls and trees and even a flagpole, all because I was playing in a Secret Garden or laughing with Anne of Green Gables or listening to Marmee read a letter to her girls.
I got into more trouble with my dad for not going to bed on time than I ever did for anything else. I would learn to turn off my light and hide under my covers with a flashlight, but that just led to bad eyes and headaches. (Totally worth it).
I told anyone who asked that I would be a writer, without really knowing what that meant, and only dreaming it meant me alone in a third-story nook with a pile of books and a little pot of ink to dab my pen in after a few words. I was a journalist and I have journals filled with my writings, so I suppose that, along with this blog, makes me a writer after all, even if I’m not famous and don’t have an inkwell.
I’m usually “reading” at least three books at any given time, and two of them are probably repeats of which I have portions memorized. I even hide a book in the bathroom vanities so that I can slip away for five minutes and just sit at the edge of the bathtub pouring over a few pages during a crazy day.
So I’ve decided to take a little literary journey.
Starting this spring, I plan to travel to the homes of my favorite writers and settings for some of my favorite stories. This seed was planted during a wintery day visit to Emily Dickinson‘s Amherst, MA home. Oh, that yellow siding! The garden! The window she looked out while writing those poems!
My list includes places near loved ones so I can try to bring them along on this Journey of One Dork:
– Louisa May Alcott’s Orchard House (Concord, MA) (Little Women, ah!)
– Edith Wharton’s The Mount (Lenox, MA) (Ethan Frome, whoa, that sledding hill!)
– Edna St Vincent Millay’s Steepletop (Austerlitz, NY) (Wine From These Grapes is on my nighstand always — plus, I share a birthday with her!)
I will gladly accept suggestions and appreciate that you are not laughing in my face at this (like my husband did, haha!). Won’t you join me?
I love getting lost in words. And these homes will let my love come to life even more.
And I’ll try not to walk into any walls while I’m there.