If you come to hear bookish conversations, it might be a bit quiet this year. Inspired by Gladys Aylward, I've taken a vow of literary chastity.--not that she ever decided to avoid books, but she was in the middle of China for 18 years... priorities lose their kaleidoscope quality, and settle into an acceptable pattern.
It's been six weeks without prose, and I'm less fragile than I thought I'd be. I'm not completely severed from words, obviously--but the only book I've opened sounds like If thou hast run with the footmen, and they have wearied thee, then how canst thou contend with horses? and if in the land of peace, wherein thou trustedst, they wearied thee, then how wilt thou do in the swelling of Jordan?
Which, really, isn't such a bad sound.
I'll be blogging just as frequently (you may laugh), but my thoughts won't circle around books. Unless it's memories of stories past. Perhaps the summer will find me writing from Europe again... there's a good chance I'll see Kiev and Prague and maybe Oslo and Stuttgart...
Perhaps I will grow prose of my own.