Discovering Plath

Inevitably, because it always is, I've ended up reading Erica Jong again. But not just one book, for one is never enough. 'Seducing the demon' which I was hoping would be an electric jolt to the writer within (so far so good), and 'Fear of Fifty', so desperate am I to learn about the life of this bolshy woman. I've stumbled upon her commentary of many female writers, and through that, rediscovered Sylvia Plath.

Many jobs ago (or so it seems) I ran a little book shop at Leeds University. It will surely be remembered as one of the most treasured times of my life. I sat for days, and devoured the literature on the reading lists of English students. I selected books for the shelves, based on what I wanted to read. And so, I met and fell for Salman Rushdie, Margaret Atwood, and Miss Plath. 'The Bell Jar', an experience, more than a series of pages. Much like Jong she writes feverishly, and fearlessly, and you are carried along in the chaos, like it or not. A stationary reading, which feels like animation.

Today, I am going Wiki crazy for her, and her life, a life peppered by suicide, even posthumously. I've bought the unabridged journals, not the one Ted Hughes so ruthlessly edited, and of course my very own 'Bell Jar' copy - yet again an attempt to absorb talent, rather than trying to produce it myself.

My bookcase is already groaning, as much with unread novels as read ones. But my desire to own more, is growing. I think I'm going to dedicate my evenings to books, so impatient and desperate do I find myself at present, for the written word. The TV has been banished to the bedroom. Then, hopefully, my own stories will show up. I actually feel (thought very quietly) that I'm ready to write again. I've been off for a long time. I've pronounced myself a writer, and shared the ideas behind past tense projects, and spoken of writing, but not actually picked up a pen.

So thank you as always to Erica, who makes me firstly ashamed of the absence of effort, and secondly invigorated by want.