I bought a novel. "A smart, subtle, funny, painful, weirdly personal novel" (Globe and Mail). For those of you who know me, this is rather significant. I never read fiction. When I was a child, I read ravenously. It was my coping mechanism in a family with seven older brothers. Withdraw to my quiet room, alone, away from the noise, and escape into fantasy. A world other than my own.
I don't remember being unhappy. But escape I did. When I hit college, reading became 1) work 2) obligatory and 3) non-fiction, so I stopped reading fiction because there is only so much time in the day. By the time I had my bachelors degree, I was burned out on reading in any genre at all.
But someone I respect recommended this book and we're entering the dog days of summer and I'm off for an extra long weekend coming up and I happened across this book wandering around Target. After I read the first couple of pages, part of one paragraph made me want to buy it:
Upstairs Maureen shut the door of David's room quietly and stood a moment breathing him in... She kept the room clean because she was waiting for David to come back, and she never knew when that would be. A part of her was always waiting. Men had no idea what it was like to be a mother. The ache of loving a child, even when he had moved on.So, yeah, "weirdly personal" is strangely accurate.
My son called today.
"I have put a damage deposit on an apartment. It's on the west end of Vancouver, a block from the beach and I can see the ocean from the front window. It's a year long lease, then month to month."
Sigh. I'm happy for him. Truly, I am. He's very responsible and talented and happy. But, I never know when he will come back and when he does, I know it will likely never be for long... but in the meantime, I'll wait for him.
And read my novel.
Update: August 18, 2015
I picked up the novel and brought it with me to camp. I finished it. Very different. Very good in weirdly personal way. I cried a little. I laughed a little. I'm glad I read it. I would recommend it.