Reader’s Block

When I began to write, I stopped reading. I did read some material related to researching my essays, but that was it. I read about crows, deer, Virginia Woolf, artists and of course about writing.  I love novels, but every novel I picked up I promptly put down. I told a friend who recently retired from a long career in publishing about my difficulty and she said that she, too, found it easier to write than to read. She spoke to a local librarian and the librarian said that it was “reader’s block.” It is similar to writer’s block, but it involves an inability to stick with reading a book.  I have great hope that this is a temporary condition.

I have finished a period of great activity for me, moving to a small town where I am now attending a new church and singing in a wonderful choir.  Will the Easter morning leave its mark on me?  I am reminded by the landscape that a sea town is quiet in winter and early spring. The ocean crashes against the beach, but no one bathes in the frigid waters and only the dogs and the brave at heart play on its dunes. One can not create energy and business now. It will take shape soon. I have retreated to my “room of one’s own” to find again my other voice, the silent one. I begin where I left off with Morning Prayer. Before I fill up my day and my schedule I come back to stillness and “reader’s block.” Perhaps this is the  break I need: a break from reading and a break from action.

On the Saturday before Easter a book arrived from a friend who knows me well. It was a book called “A Woman Writing: A Memoir in Essays.” This book struck the right chord. If I couldn’t read fiction, then why not begin reading this book on writing and essays. She also encouraged me to connect with the landscape of my new place. We always think that we need to meet lots of people and make new friends first, but the landscape and the sky, the water and animals can teach us a lot about where we are living. I am now seeing more in this small town. The birds are building their nests of straw and lint from dryers. I am slowly beginning to read again. The nest will soon become filled with eggs and new life will emerge. I wait and experience Eliot’s cruel “April” as it winds its way through our town and our hearts.