For the Love of Books
I had a grand plan to detail the exhilaration I felt when I walked down Madison Ave. tonight and happened upon Oxford University Press. But that was about five hours ago. Now I would prefer to just get to it.
It's no secret that I've lived in New York for more than two years. And the whole time I've been aware of the existence of major book publishers. I even entertained the thought of interning at Routledge, something that was once a dream of mine. But the pull has never been so great as to make me go in search of the building where so many amazing books have been published, some of which are in my bookcases. Tonight, though, walking by this prolific publisher of books almost knocked the wind out of me.
Andrew and I were leaving our sitcom meeting, which consists of three writers that Anna says is the beginning of a bad joke (A Jew, a dyke and a Persian walk into a bar -- or, as the case was tonight, a Starbucks. The punchline was lost on all of us, but we enjoyed it nonetheless.)We were having a conversation about life and all that good stuff when all of a sudden, we were overcome -- at least I was -- by a display of books. We stopped. I gawked. "What is this?" I asked, knowing it wasn't a bookstore. Andrew kept walking and saw that there was another, equally beautiful, window. And that's when I saw the sign. The words "Oxford University Press" in gold next to the window. Excitement actually overtook me. My eyes grew wider as I stared through the locked doors, peering at the guard and the few people mulling about in the lobby. I was jealous of them. I wanted to go in, but because I was treating it like the White House (I realize that means very little to nothing these days, but this building, I have decided, is my White House). In awe. I almost wanted to kneel before it and give thanks and praise. It's four blocks from my job. I will be returning during business hours to see if I can gain access to something. I don't know. Maybe some editors. Anyway, Oxford fucking University Press. Books. On display. Somehow it's more exciting than walking by Barnes and Noble. I did some more writing this weekend. I decided that maybe to get going, I would write something for myself in response to the question: "Why write a book?" It helped. I went off for a page, mostly for the sake of tapping into a particular voice. I have more than one, and I think that I might be trying to locate the one I want to use for this book. I still had some trouble getting past the first period, but I might be onto something. At least a start. And there won't be an ending without one of those, so I've got to push through it. Back to politics for a bit. This morning, I had a feeling that Kerry was going to win. And then there are stories about this poll and that poll showing Bushy ahead. I don't get it. There is so much subversive media out there exposing the ineptitude of our current "leader," yet the race is tight. Is nobody reading? Anna's offered her apartment for an Election Day party. Should be fun. I feel the only way to deal with that evening will be to drink through and laugh (and cray) at the prospect of America's impending demise at the hands of an ill-suited man.
