The joys of collecting, in two aspects

[desperance]

It's good to feel good before midday, to feel you deserve what comes to you. Right now, I'm positively cocky.

I was up betimes, and wrote a couple of pages of The Book That Dare Not Speak Its Weight, to finish off a chapter; then - because I am good, because I am the epitome of virtue - I didn't slump with a mug of coffee and something to read, no. I went into town, bought a couple of Danish (an Americanism, I know, but I like it) and a big mug of coffee, and went through the ghost story for Wednesday, hacking and chopping like a man at a hedge. I no longer hate it so much as I did, tho' it's still too long and all wrong for the venue & the occasion. It even has a first stab at a title now (most stories start with a title; the further they go without one, the harder it becomes to find the right one). At the moment, it's called "Summer's Lease".

And then I reckoned up what I'd done in the last forty-eight hours, which was about five thousand words of fiction, plus the reworking, plus about five minutes of the play; and I thought I was entitled to go home via bookshops.

So I found a book on Spanish and Moroccan, I suppose essentially Andalucian, cooking; and absolutely I do not need another cookbook, I cannot house these that I have, and I could cook a lifetime already without ever running out of new and interesting recipes; but I flicked through it, and it had new and interesting recipes, and...

Well, what it is, I start to bargain with myself, "you can come back and buy that after the gig on Wednesday, as a reward" - but as soon as I do that, I've acknowledged that I'm going to buy it sometime, so it might as well be now, and save the worry of its disappearing later.

So I did; and wandered on through town, and ended up at the Oxfam bookshop, source of occasional Chalet School books; and lo, a wonder! There are a few anthologies for girls, with Brent-Dyer stories in; and there it was, one I don't have, in fairly decent nick for four quid.

This wasn't even a negotiation, it was straight out with the purse and the book goes in the bag. These aren't exactly rare, and Abebooks makes it easy to find and buy them - but Abe steals away the pleasure of discovery: the startled disbelief, the sudden grab, the timorous opening to look at the price, the gasp of relief, the scrabble for the purse, all of that.

I am home and happy, and have started the next chapter. I am exhausted, but indefatigable. I am good today.

Comments

The Joys of Collecting

[poesmother.livejournal.com]

"...as soon as I do that, I've acknowledged that I'm going to buy it sometime, so it might as well be now, and save the worry of its disappearing later."

But you do know, don't you, that if you're really, really meant to have it, it'll still be there when you come back?

Re: The Joys of Collecting

[desperance.livejournal.com]

Ach, but this would mean that those times they've been gone when I come back, I was really not meant to have them after all? Which would be a perfectly fine definition of a universe, except that it would mean that I've been wasting all that time beating myself up over not buying them when I saw them, hating myself for being such a ditherer...

No, actually, you're right. It's a way to live with yourself, isn't it? When secretly you find yourself unbearable, this is a way to make the relationship work. Now all I have to do is believe it...