Wordstock Roadtrip?

Wordstock 2013 begins October 3. I’m currently trying to find a way to get a way off work to make the road trip. I would love to attend a few writer’s workshops and just take in the whole book fair. I have never attended. Any past Wordstockers out there who can give me some tips on what to keep an eye out for?

 

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Found Objects & Books

Great blog post. It makes me want to run down to the bookstore and buy a new book.

Sunnyside Tuxedo

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It does not take a lot persuasion to make me buy a book. I love books and pile them all over my apartment like I’m preparing for an apocalypse in which printed matter will provide us with the only literal, rather than merely metaphoric, means of survival. However, there is one attribute of a book that categorically forces me to buy it. Very occasionally when browsing through the shelves of a bookstore, I will find that a volume contains an extra part that neither the author nor publisher put there. It could be a dedication or some thoughtful marginalia (notes clearly taken for a class do not count, according to the completely arbitrary rules in my head) or, as it was last night, a photograph.

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On the Mend

There is a kind of deep sorrow that overcomes me when I finish reading a really good book. It’s a sadness that pushes down on my chest and wends its way through my limbs. It makes me feel as though I will never read another book that moves me the way this last one did. Then, surprisingly, I pick up another book that draws me to its very spine and I am reminded again of the sadness. 

Although this is ultimately the way I want every book to make me feel, I recognize how exhausting it would be. After reading a book like that, it often takes me several days, sometimes a week or more, before I can pick up another book. It takes so much energy to invest myself so fully in the characters and writing in such a book, that I feel as though I have run a marathon through mud. 

Oh that every line of prose I wrote could be so well received by others. I long to lead my readers into a deep melancholy with the last sentence of my stories.