That was weird. I decided to dig out a couple of my old books to send to Bonnie in Georgia and now a whole day has been shot to hell. I opened a book I wrote twenty years ago, and it was like getting lost in a box of high school mementos. Kind of a head trip, because I hadn’t expected the book to plant me so firmly in my past, in my old life.
My God, I was naïve. I wrote some things that were lame and dishonest, more focused on getting the friggin' book sold than saying what I really should have said. But a lot of it was real. Most of it was real. But I was still a naïve idiot. :D The writing was dramatic and sappy, leaning too heavily on things I’d read in other books, thinking it was expected of me – and maybe it was.
I experience this recall whenever I look at old book covers. I remember where we were living at the time the book was written, what we were doing. The books become markers that coincide with life events. But I never actually picked one up and read it until today. Weird as hell.