A while ago I talked about how much my mother has always loved Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. Last week we were talking about old times and good books before bed and I asked her lend me the book. I remember trying to read it as a teenager and not getting into it at all. Perhaps I preferred more realism (the exception of course being dwarves, elves and magic rings) in my books and didn’t care for time travelling love stories.
There are many ways to show the special people in our lives that we love them. Sometimes we bake them their favourite pies. Sometimes we read the books that they have treasured. Sometimes we give in to their dreams of eating stacks of American pancakes for breakfast.
I’m getting into the book now. Once I’ve finished cutting the grass and taking a flamethrower to the weeds, I might take a blanket and some pillows, lie on the grass and read a little more. My mother told me to be careful with it. It’s so old and so loved that it’s falling apart. Maybe I’ll get her a fresh copy for Christmas.
But it did start me thinking. Perhaps because I took the book from her on 9 Thermidor (27 July). The day Robespierre fell. My mother has always wanted me to write about Robespierre. She even knows exactly how she wants it to start. Strangely enough, the exact same way I wanted it to start. So when I went to bed that night, after I put down Cross Stitch/Outlander, I thought a lot about that book. I thought a lot about old passions, old interests, the old lives I wanted to lead.
My parents don’t think I’ll ever make any money from Chocolates in the Ocean. They could be right. But I do know one thing. I never will if I don’t try a lot harder. And the first thing I need to find out is why I am resisting the idea.
Good thing I’m mowing the lawn today. Nothing like pushing that machine up and down in endless rows to make the mind wander.