I'm sitting here on this fantastically quiet Saturday night, candle flickering and barely any noise throughout this house, staring at the shelves of my bookcase in front of me. I am not sure why this makes me so calm. Perhaps it's the knowledge that I can find answers there - one of these books has something to teach me tonight, if I'm willing. Maybe it's the familiarity of the books I have from my childhood and upbringing - I can hear my Grandpa Norman's words on Hemingway. I can recall my mother's voice reading some of the fairytales in my enormous Children's Stories anthology up there. I can think back on countless nights in high school, setting aside my AP homework to curl up on the couch with "The Princess Bride," or some random Nancy Drew. Getting lost in some other story. Seeing how other tales can end; taking heart in the fact that I am still very much writing my novel each day, and it could go in any one of these fantastic directions.
I think the comfort is probably in the lessons there. The enlightenment. The opportunity to expand and evolve and adapt. There is comfort in the plans laid out by humans older and wiser - and so much more experienced than I. Maybe tonight they'll let me join them.
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