Sometimes I walk into places, like the other day it was this bookstore, and I look around at all of the things in the place, in this case books, and I get overwhelmed by it all. Like, the thought of all of those millions of words working together in order to construct an idea or an argument makes me get all teary-eyed. Even if it’s something weird like a memoir where a guy confesses to putting his dick in the family dog’s mouth as a kid to practice for getting his first BJ, just the idea that all of those tiny words are bundled up in the enormity of all of the other words around them in that book, and all of the other books in the store around it, stacked on each other like creative brick and mortar, is enough to turn on the water works. I’m not sure if I’m just so inspired by all of the work around me (not the dick-in-dog-mouth part, I’m not inspired by that. Yuck.) or just overwhelmed by the amount of hours and energy that went into writing all of those words, editing them, pitching them to publishers, getting them accepted and the elation that comes with that, then having them printed into hundreds, thousands, or hundreds of thousands of books that need designers to design the layouts, book jackets, print and web ads, and then all of the promotional might that goes into getting those authors into radio interviews, podcasts, or maybe even the Colbert Late Night thing where the author’s publicist gives the show’s producers a list of talking points that the author is comfortable discussing. Walking into places like that bookstore and being surrounded by all of that manifested potential makes my chest grow tight and my eyes hot and it might be that I’m inspired or jealous or whatever, but more than anything when I’m there I just want to stay in that place, feeling whatever I’m feeling, forever.
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