Summary

An elderly bibliophilic woman reflects on her life, addressing her aging process, claustrophobia induced by her growing book collection, and her aspirations for writing a new novel.

Abstract

The author, a self-proclaimed bibliophilic and claustrophobic woman in her late sixties, shares her thoughts on aging, her slowing pace, and the overwhelming growth of her book collection. She humorously describes her daily routines and the challenges of keeping her living space organized. Despite her age, she takes pride in not slowing down as rapidly as she is aging. Her apartment seems to shrink due to the proliferation of books, which she anthropomorphizes as reproducing overnight. She is currently plotting a new novel, a mash-up of noir, fantasy, and humor, featuring a unicorn named Unique Orn. The author discusses her research process and the joy she finds in reading and writing, even when the content evokes pain or discomfort. She contemplates the KonMari method of decluttering but ultimately decides against it, finding joy in most of her books and the stories they contain. Instead, she reorganizes her space to make room for new possibilities and continues to write, inspired rather than lazy.

Opinions

The author views her perceived laziness as a deliberate choice to slow down, not a personal flaw.
She expresses a humorous disdain for the rapid reproduction of her book collection, which ironically does not follow a typical literary growth pattern.
The author finds comfort in the idea that she is not slowing down in her old age as quickly as she might have expected.
She values the emotional impact of books, whether they bring joy, pain, or motivation, and believes that not all books need to spark joy to be worth keeping.
The author has a sarcastic view of the KonMari method, questioning the practicality of applying it to a large book collection.
She sees her writing as a source of inspiration and a way to connect with readers on an emotional level, rather than just a pursuit of joy.
The author prioritizes the emotional and motivational value of her books over the physical space they occupy.
She is critical of the societal pressure to constantly be productive, asserting that her time spent reading and writing is a form of inspiration, not laziness.

LAST-MINUTE FUN AND GAMES

Confessions of a Life-Long Bibliophilic Claustrophobic Lazy Lady

Looking to turn over a new page in the new year

Before I exit this life and endure the claustrophobia of casket or urn, let me offer a last-ditched diatribe against laziness.What some might label laziness, I call slowing down. Yep. I am simply not as fast as I used to be. In my 20s I could wake up at 5 am and be out the door at 5:15, shower and all!

Nowadays, I can’t even take a shower in fifteen minutes.

Well, I can do the showering part. In fact, I’m working on keeping my water time down to 3–4 minutes after getting a great big catastrophic scolding from Greta.

But dressing, hair brushing, teeth-brushing, and applying creams to my face and anti-fungal to my toes, hopefully not getting the two mixed up, takes most of the time.

67 is more than three times 20, but I’m only half as slow as I was then. This gives me some comfort. I’m not slowing as fast as I’m aging.

But I am starting to get a bit claustrophobic.

Sorta. Kinda. My apartment’s shrinking. Or so it appears.

It’s not really. Our stuff is growing.

Our very own Sarah Paris wrote here about AI having babies. Well, my stuff has babies. My books seem to reproduce overnight. Only you’d think the new spawn would be baby’s board books that would morph into children’s books.

First as Picture books, like Goodnight Moon, then become Middle-Grade wonders like Charlotte’s Web, up through Holes and The One and Only Ivan, finally turning into YA fantasy. Replete with vampires or cancer or the Nazi’s to name a few popular demons.

That would be fun.

But no, that’s not what’s happening. In fact, since I don’t bring them home from the library, I’ve been buying them online. Impulsivity as well as compulsively.

Some, probably most, I need for my library. Or research.

I’m plotting a new novel for the new year.

This one, a Noir-fantasy-humor mash-up where the femme fatal is a unicorn. By the name of, perhaps, Unique Orn. Cute, huh?

Now I’m on a mission to find, which is not easy, and to read, which is a lot of fun, every spoofy noirish book I can find. My first stop was Christopher Moore’s bestselling hard-boiled spoof, Noir, set right here in San Francisco.

While it’s a wild goose chase all over the city and Bohemian Grove, the most vivid scene for me was an after-hours Chinese jook restaurant. There, old single men drink beer laced with snake piss to up their libido, allowing them to get into that kind of late-night mischief.

Something about the way the scene was lit…I can’t say it any plainer than that. I just saw it so clearly…with a bittersweet aftertaste on my reader’s tongue.

A cricket bat, as playwright Tom Stoppard called those moments, referring to the intricately sprung wood they’re made of: “What we’re trying to do is write cricket bats, so that when we throw up an idea and give it a little knock, it might … travel ….”

Not sure if I’ve written any cricket bats but I’ve written quite a few sexy scenes over the course of my writing life. Those don’t make me claustrophobic. They make me something else.

My growing collection of books make me claustrophobic.

But not just. They also make me nostalgic, entranced, enchanted, uplifted, entertained, informed, forewarned, and motivated to write, which is why I keep buying them.

Yes, some books have made me aroused, just like some men have.

But not nearly as much as my own writing. Which is not why I do it. But I figure if it works for at least one person, there’s a chance it works, period. I’ve gotten as much in the way of feedback.

My way of knowing if I’m using words to evoke feelings without having to hit the nail on the head. Because actually, a gentler approach works much better than wham bam.

How did I get here?

Oh, yeah claustrophobia. Go figure.

Yesterday I almost KonMari’d my books….God forbid!

According to the Queen of Tidy, Marie Kondo’s instructions, we are to put all our books on the floor.

Marie, Honey, there ain’t room for all my books on the floor. They’d be stacked to the ceiling and topple over, burying me alive.

Though what a bibliophilic way to go, right?

Then after we get them all off their shelves, if they’re even all on shelves which in my case is not the case, we’re supposed to pick each one up, caress it with our hands, clutch it to our hearts, and ask ourselves if it gives us joy.

As if touching colorful pieces of cardboard cuddling slices of killed trees will tell us that. Like reading braille.

Remember, Marie, that old adage, don’t judge a book by its cover. It’s not the cover, however colorful or clever, or the pages, but the story or the message inside that may or may not bring joy.

They may bring pain.

And it may or may not be a good kind of pain. Or a valuable kind of pain. A Book Thief or Greta Thunberg kind of pain. Well worth knowing and reading about Some kinds of pain are made more bearable because of their luscious prose.

And some kinds of pain are made more visceral because of the raw, naked, unpolished way the words tell the truth. Especially the Inconvenient Truths we need to hear whether we want to or not. Whether their messages bring us joy or not.

Who among us would say I read Al Gore and my heart overflowed with joy? He’d think we’re crazy. So would Mama GAIA. Overflowed with horror would be more apropos.

So should we throw Al and Greta out because the feeling that shocked us into action wasn’t joy? I don’t think so. I think those are keepers.

So it may not surprise you when I say I only found about six books to purge. At least so far.

What I did do was find ways to get more of them off the floor and off my bed onto shelves. Neatly. To my amazement. There’s more room and light in here now.

All in two hours. On a NaNoWriMo break. Because I had to get off my butt and move this ole body. Before it atrophies. Or you think I’m lazy.

I’m not lazy, I’m inspired.

Now that I met my NaNo goal, my rogue NaNo goal of 40 or more hours of editing my novel, I do plan to tackle clutter. Create a sense of spaciousness as I head into the new year.

Making literal and metaphorical room for new possibilities and publications.

I’m even planning to reread Marie’s book. Because, believe it or not, when I pick it up and clutch it to my breast, the little bugger brings me joy!

Thank you, Susan Brearley, for this MuddyUm Writer’s Challenge!

The MuddyUm Writers’ Challenge

MWC for 2021/2022

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All proceeds from this story will be donated to Clowns Without Borders!

Marilyn Flower writes humor to laugh the changes she wants to see and make. She’s the author of Creative Blogging: Ninja Writers Guide to Character Development and Bucket Listers, Get Your Brave On: How to Do the Thing You’re ‘Too Old’ & ‘Too Scared’ to Do. Clowning and improvisation strengthen her resolve during these crazy times. Stay in touch!