I like to read. I read greedily. I inhale books. I skim over sentences and miss out words in a bid to consume to the story quickly and completely.
I want to read about relationships. About marriages under the microscope, traumatic relationship breakdowns. Give me a tale of friendship told over decades , from innocent young students to disappointed middle aged careerists. The heartbreaking normality of a life. I will devour it . Give me the story of a woman who is lost , who doesn’t fit in or is struggling to belong. Show me that woman and I will look for myself.
I will try and find the meaning and answers to my own life in the pages of a book. Isn’t that what art is for ?
I will fly through pages, missing the nuance in a bid to find out what it’s all about , so I can know the truth as soon as possible, and really start to live.
I want to see small lives made large. The overwhelming mundanity of the day to day. Love and heartbreak, and angst and uncertainty and people feeling lost and at sea and people feeling sure and at home. I want to see myself and my friends and my children and my colleagues and my neighbours.
I want to know all their stories. I want to know that somewhere, someone’s story is the same as my story.
Am I telling my story right ?
(Some of my favourites.)