“i like nonfiction books about people with wretched lives.” // d. sedaris
i was once a voracious reader – the fatter the fiction, the better.
i was the girl that took all 1488 pages of vikram seth’s a suitable boy on a sun-shiny holiday – instead of sunning myself, i sat under the lushest palm i could find, to banish the tan i didn’t want, and to keep the sun out of my eyes so that i could read from the moment i had that first breakfast piña colada, to that last ruddy-cheeked moment in the breeze of the evening.
yet somewhere in the time between my late twenties and late – sorry, i lost my train of thought – i’ve become the unwilling bystander to the made-up, the far-fetched, to fantasy.
whether it’s having feet too firmly fit in earth to read about make-believe – non-fiction – essays, long-form articles, op-eds, memoirs and auto-and-solo-biographies are the only tales as of late that i have a taste, and time for. if it’s an allegory or fairy tale that i’m after, the closest i’m getting to that – is in the telling of histories of those who turned their imaginations inside out and into reality for themselves, and let everyone else around them be privy to their outcomes.
➝ source : hunger makes me a modern girl / by carrie brownstein
➝ source : an emergency in slow motion / the inner life of diane arbus by william todd schultz
➝ source : empress of fashion / by a.m. stuart
➝ source : the folded clock / by heidi julavits