Hooked on books

I keep buying books. Books about the South. Books about sailing. Books about islands. Books about people. Novels by the famous authors and by the unknowns like me. If I don’t buy at least one book a weeks, I feel like something’s not right. One of these days I will have more books than life left to read them. But I won’t know when I pass that line. Only God will.

Bad things happened, an entire run of them that shut me down, caused me to withdraw from everything except my inner self.

One afternoon, in a hammock, I took a photo of myself. Just my legs. But there was no one to send it to. No one to understand.

I needed a sidekick so I sketched an armadillo because they’re crusty on the outside but not within. I made him my butler. Crusoe’s manservant Friday.

We began interacting—my hammock photo speaking to that critter, that critter speaking back.There’s a folder of cartoons somewhere. For now there’s just this one. (LINK)

Eventually after that I began writing novels.

I’m still a hermit, marooned you might say, but leaving my shell more and more—my inner self seeking its freedom through writing.