The first of the month comes like clockwork. As does each Wednesday. Every week believe it or not.
This one is different.
This one has been building.
This one is not as welcome.
The books on my staircase bookcase have been dreading the flip of the calendar to March. They shudder at the thought of sitting unattended, their words stuck to the page. They’ve been relishing in our newfound relationship the last year or so. They’re not looking forward to one another’s company for the next thirty days. There will be no showing off how wonderful they were on any Instagram feeds or Facebook walls. For them, there will be no love.
I can feel their animosity as I carry my writer’s notebook notes section on my iPhone up the stairs. I can feel them sighing in resignation after I pass them by again in preparation for a month long stint of writer in residence. The sneaky buggers even fall over now and again to entice me with their beauty. Emails ping to let me know my pre-order is coming to join them and they get a little excited to have a new friend.
But nothing is as satisfying as me falling into their pages.
That’s my March trade off. Reader in residence to writer in residence.
Here’s to writing. Here’s to reading stories of a different kind. Here’s to leaving and receiving comments. Here’s to getting lost in some pages. Here’s to feeling the love that only a true writing community can provide.
Here’s to March.