Over the last few days I have been having a crisis of confidence about my new career choice, but not in the way that you might imagine. All writers wonder whether they are good enough, but that is not the issue that is festering away in my mind at the moment (although it usually is, in case you get the impression that I am extraordinarily self-confident). I am starting to wonder what I am potentially missing out on in life because of my predilection for books, either reading or writing.
On Monday morning I boarded the fast ferry to Holyhead for a trip to the UK to catch up with my friends and relatives. I grabbed a table by the window and proceeded to get out my novel, because to travel by public transport without something to read would be unthinkable. Incidentally I have passed this habit on to my son and he was disappointed that there was nothing sufficiently interesting to read in the onboard shop, and had to make do with The Irish Times. The sight of an eleven year old trying to manhandle a broadsheet newspaper was quite amusing, but I digress.
The school holliers have already started in Ireland so the boat was filled with noisy excitable children who jostled around our table and made reading rather difficult. It was also a gorgeous calm day and the sea was glassy smooth and I put down my book and joined the little kids in gazing out of the window at the seabirds and boats. I spent the next two hours daydreaming out of the window and was rewarded with the sight of three porpoises and two whales. I have quite an obsession with whales and dolphins and so seeing a pilot whale breaking through the water just a few yards away from the boat was thrilling and something I would have missed had I persevered with my book. It got me thinking about what else I may have missed. I don’t think I missed anything on the London Underground, or on any plane journeys, so that can’t be considered a wasted experience, but I do wonder whether I have spent too much holiday time with my nose in a book and missed something more tangible.
I do recall an unfortunate honeymoon experience when my husband de jour made the misguided decision to buy me the latest John Grisham novel, and then whined, probably with good reason, that I would not put it down in order to pay sufficient attention to him. I don’t recall the book now so it couldn’t have been that brilliant, and now the husband has run off to someone else, presumable someone less addicted to reading and more addicted to him. I don’t think that particular incident was responsible for our downfall, however, I do think that my priorities in life are a little skewed. When I am engrossed in a book I become completely deaf to the world, and time has a habit of slipping away so before I know it a day and most of the night has gone by and I haven’t done all things I intended to do, which include things like pay attention to my nearest and dearest, fight my way through the ironing mountain or stick to my resolution of walking an hour a day.
Thankfully the current husband de jour has been blessed with infinite patience for my addiction and he is similarly addicted to sport, and therefore I have ample time to hide away in a book whilst he plays or watches cricket, football, rugby, formula 1 etc etc. But even so, I have a feeling that I should cut back on my reading habit. It is rather strange to think about this when fledgling writers are encouraged to read as much as possible, but all things in moderation as they say.
When we drove off the ferry we had the choice of whether to take the fastest route, via as much motorway as possible or to take the slower more scenic route through North Wales. We chose the scenic route and although it added an hour or more to the exceedingly long journey it was worth it. We drove through the Cambrian mountains and gorgeous little towns like Llangollen and Bettws y Coed. As I drove I continued to reflect on the type of life experiences that have meant the most to me and the kind of memories that will be treasured at the end of my life. None of them involve reading or writing and I started to worry about what I was doing in embarking on a career that will mean hours spent huddled over a laptop. I might never achieve fame and fortune, although that is not my driving ambition thankfully. But what am I sacrificing for my passion?
Many hours later when I reached my destination I felt rather more cheerful after I had thought about the kind of books that have made a significant difference to my life. There are too many to mention but through literature I have travelled the world from the comfort of my armchair and been introduced to millions of people I would never have met in real life. Books have enlarged my vocabulary, altered my politics, informed my beliefs (or lack of them) and broadened my view of the world. They have, in effect, made me the person I am. They have also amused, entertained, enlightened and made me feel like I am not the only person in the world with my particular blend of personal disasters.
And as for my own ambition to add yet more publications to an overburdened market I think that this is still preferable to spending the rest of my working life in a office. I have spent 32 years of my life working in various offices, and in all honesty I don’t think I have added achieved anything remarkable and long-lasting. However, if I can amuse or entertain someone just for a few hours during a quiet moment in their life, then I think it will all have been worthwhile.
But I am going to have a new mid-year resolution. I will be more discriminate about my reading material and will make a conscious effort to spend less time reading and more time living life.
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