I've been able to read this summer. Really read. I've been able to look at my bookshelf, dusty and neglected from two semesters at the university, and pull any book I want from the shelf. I feel guilty. I want to read them all, I want to read them all again. My eyes gaze over my favorites, the pages yellow and curling.
I've been reading a borrowed book called Tweak. I don't know why I drift to this genre so often. The stories are not uplifting. The twelve-step programs do not make sense to me. I have never been an addict. I cannot relate. But there's something to Cupcake Brown's memoir of prostitution at eleven. There's something to James Frey's retelling of a root canal sans anesthesia. There's something to Nic Sheff's glass-blown jar of meth and heroin. These tales are hard to put down.
More than anything, I'm grateful for them. These immaculately detailed and brutally honest stories make me remember how much I love to write. So hello again, Afternoon Tea.