A change of page

 

Even though I studied magazine writing in school, I find it surprising that of late I am gobbling up glossy periodicals. For someone educated in and practiced with and occasionally paid for churning out pieces that are more than a soundbyte, the medium just hasn't been what I've fed myself on since my teenage days of poring over Seventeen and YM. In my twenties, I used to buy Vogue and Marie Claire at airports as a treat for the flight and all the gate 3B waiting, but I stopped once I discovered that I really didn't read what I purchased.

Recently I found good deals on the Economist, New Yorker, and Businessweek (no this post is not sponsored), and decided to bite. And with my new access to longform literature, I'm just the happiest camper that ever was.

Actually, Max the cat is probably the happiest of campers. He snuggles in bed all the time and purrs purrs purrs each a.m. when I sit up in bed and collapse my doting self over him for some morning snuggles.

Anyway.

In the past couple of weeks I've read about bugs, flower arrangements, a Saudi Arabian prince, nude dining in France, an out-of-control space station, and a robot that can detect lung cancer.

Also I've discovered that I actually can tolerate some of David Sedaris' writing and that he actually can make me laugh pretty gutturally when he's talking about something serious and inserts a borderline-cruel quip rather than when he's trying to be over the top for an entire narrative. He's deeper than I had given him credit for, or maybe that he gives himself, based on what he reveals in his books (and my opinion of them).

I've found myself reading magazines before bed instead of books.

I've found myself at times able to read while music is playing.

I take note of the cartoons and art and articles that I want to mail to various friends and family. (Mama, get ready for an influx of animated cats).

I find myself returning unfinished library books in exchange for sips of well-researched topics I would otherwise never explore. And sometimes those sips are actually gulps and I drink them down with satisfaction, ignoring the New Yorker's pretention and appreciating its commitment to focus, culture, and cleverness.

I have not given up on books -- NEVER -- and occasionally still pick one up and thumb through hardbound pages while I wait in the doctor's office. But I'm enjoying this new change of pace, greatly.

I've enjoyed the recent rain in LA (though admittedly by day three I was feeling a little glum). I've enjoyed cross stitching princess Ariel in bed while my feline prince warms my feet, then setting aside the rainbow of thread to read reviews of Broadway plays I'll never see.

I'm in a new season, and Friends, I'm kind of in love. I haven't packed a suitcase or boarded an airplane in four months, and to many that may seem insignificant, but given the craziness of my life last year this is actually a huge, welcome shift.

 

I do have a fill-limit on the amount I can read in one sitting, but I've noticed that when I'm supersaturated with the written word, I find myself more and more less restless. I've caught myself just sitting, chin cupped in a hand on an elbow pedestal, gazing into forward space, and I'm not rushing to do the next activity. Life is less a race, a competition, a proving to myself that I have been productive enough. Ah, America's greatest yardstick: Did I do enough?

 

My life right now is enough. I write letters to friends; my handwriting is still abhorrent, but it is legible and I can feel the pen simply traveling across my stationery rather than being pulled to the edge of the cardstock. Sure, I still get irritable and depressed and angry. But I view each moment as a moment, not a final statement to define how I will feel for the next hour, day, month.

 

Perhaps it is this momentary thinking that has me momentarily appreciating The Magazine. And perhaps I should define her not for what she isn't: a book, but for what she is: a bearer of words, a comforter. Wrapped in a different weekly cover, much care put into her by bustling writers, but non-judgmental of how much of her I read. If she hits the bottom of the recycling bin only partially tasted, she has still served her purpose. She has helped lead me home.