Profile of a Bookworm Blogger

 In which I discuss my bibliophilic tendencies

My having a book about my person - whether I'm on the street, on a park bench seat, or up in a tree - is almost certainly a certainty!

I read everyday.

Now, as I make that admission, you may start to form images of my being a rather bookish fellow - a tote bag of some sort over my shoulder, thick framed glasses sat on the bridge of my nose, and a cup of black coffee perched somewhere within reach. Perhaps I wear a cool hipster cardigan, to go with my cool hipster facial hair, which really ties together the whole bookish-hipster thing that I am going for, no? That's a very nice, and Instagram ready, image. But, it's not me. No, think more Chris Pratt in Parks and Recreation, only with a book in hand. That's closer.

I do like to think, in my more deluded moments, that my being widely read lends me, at least a slight, air of intellect, and perhaps sophistication - we all have an ego, that's my only excuse. However, truth be told, the books that I have immersed myself in have not conferred upon me those attributes. No, they have left me with something more important though - the thoughts, lessons, feelings, and ideas of men and women from other times, and other places. A good book can leave you feeling small and, at the same time, part of something huge, like when you look up and consider the ocean of space and stars in which we are suspended.

Mostly, I read for joy though.

But, reading is a solitary activity which is, most of the time, fine by me - I am a tad more introverted than I am extroverted. Still, I sit here, click-clacking away at the keyboard now, reaching out into the void that is the internet, tossing my thoughts and feelings about reading out there. Obviously, I hope that it will reach someone and, dare I hope, some sort of connection is made. Otherwise, what is the point?

Maybe joy. Maybe that's the point again . . .

At the moment I am reading The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro and it could very well be the case that, much like how Stevens, the butler of Darlington Hall, is stultified by his life in service, I am made a little dull by my interest in all things bookish - which would go some way to explaining why I feel a need to allude to a literary character when describing myself; it might make the portrait a little less bloody boring!

Still, I do hope that these posts are of interest to somebody. As I sit here in my room, bookish and writerly notions in a perfect cloud of sparkly hope dust erupted above my noggin, hunched over this laptop, clickery-clacking the keys to form these words that you are reading (hopefully!), I hope that somebody is reading. I hope somebody shares it. And, I hope that we can have an exchange . . .

Anyway . . .

Signing off. Read well. Be good. Please enjoy the below picture - nothing bookish here, just my late dog (otherwise known as my best friend) viciously attacking my face with her weapon of choice, her tongue.