Je Suis: Book master!
I was drawing in a hand-made sketchbook that had been bought for me Christmas '07, and I suddenly just stopped, shut the book, put down the pencil, and admired the book.
Have you ever truly looked at a hand-made book? Mine is hard-bound, and uses the typical Japanese style of binding (3 holes in the middle of the binding, evenly spaced; the threads are connected by knots... it's not as complicated or as weird as it sounds here) for such books. But the very feel of it is just so different than what you get with a normal book.
Instead of feeling like "just another book" (as wonderful as those can be), you stop to take the time to notice the beautiful stitching, the beautiful binding and coverings; you pause to admire the paper, hand-selected for you to use as your own. It's as though someone made the book just for you, and you know you not only look different carrying it, but you can feel the difference, you know you have that special book with you.
I skipped (not literally; I fall down the stairs enough as it is) down to the kitchen to wash the dinner dishes, and as I was scrubbing away at the steak pan it hit me:
I want to make books. (What, you thought the steak pan sprouted arms and hit me? Silly reader.)
I'm not entirely sure why this prospect has me so excited, but it's the oddest thing -- the moment I thought it, I was filled with this warm, butterflies-in-my-stomach, impatient feeling of anticipation, and I could almost feel my heart and hands yearning to start right away. I have never felt anything like it, and I keep re-thinking it and re-thinking it, just to keep that feeling alive.
It makes sense, in a way. Books have always been a very important to me; first as a young child, when I could see the pretty illustrations, admire the vibrant colors being used (or the elegant shadowing, if in black-and-white); the words back then were such a wonder to me, and I often felt as though they were reading themselves, a storyteller using magic to feed the imagination of the hungry listener.
I graduated quickly to small novels and series, hungrily devouring those images they created, taking in all the wonder and fascination they could give me. In place of a storyteller I often felt as though all the words in the books would just come off the page, dance, laugh for me; they would form wings of words, that I may fly, fly, fly far from where my body supposedly "really" was.
By the time I was 12 I already had already had a college-level reading level for quite some time, and carried books with me everywhere. Even my own parents told me I read too much, which is quite a feat (my entire family goes through books faster than most people go through dessert).
But besides books with words on them, I also held a deep love and fascination of wordless books. I would often gaze at them for who-knows-how-long, gingerly stroking the paper, my imagination vividly sketching, painting, placing me in those books. Those books, who had so much potential that I often hate to fill them up. But then, some part of me feels it is like the death of a friend, when you fill those books with your own thoughts, words, plans, pictures:
It is over, and you mourn it, grieve the ending of such an admiring figure. But then you remember, this is a new chapter in the proverbial book (what a pun to be making), and you eagerly set out on a new adventure -- the adventure to find the next perfect book, while some small part of you will always continue to feel sorrow the book has ended, but pride in the fact you helped fill that book, just as you will always help fill a friend's life.
I sometimes feel like I am a book collector, for all that my use of my books is never-ending. Everywhere I have ever travelled, I have picked up some sort of book, most of which are handmade: Recipe books, scrapbooks, photo albums, etc. And they are all used and loved.
But the moment I finished drying my hands from dishes, I raced back up the stairs (once again tripping up them) and logged onto my computer, quickly searching "Book making." Okay, not the best search criteria. So I changed it to "make your own books". I couldn't think of anything better at the moment, but enough results came up to keep me encouraged and excited.
Then lo and behold, I discover there are colleges that teach such things! My current big interest is the Columbia College Chicago, a liberal Art's college. It looks pretty sweet, it does.
But something even odder happened than that feeling of anticipation: As I sit here, typing, my mind keeps thinking of me making books, and I begin to cry. I'm serious, and I absolutely abhor crying! (Other people can cry all they want, I simply don't like to do it myself.) I actually have to force myself not to think of it, just to keep my eyes dry! Which is somewhat difficult, considering I'm, y'know, writing about it...
But I'm not just excited about the prospect of making books. It's the entire process that fascinates me: choosing materials, choosing cover materials, actually making my own paper if possible; printmaking, paper making, book making! The entire process has me absolutely thrilled.
I'm quite cautious, because I know for a fact that whenever I get excited about something other things must be done to ensure my continued interest, or I eventually drift into/onto the next subject. But this just feels right, in a way that bewilders me, thrills me, amazes me, terrifies me.
I haven't felt an idea so certain, so right, since I was a mere child who was already too old. Not since I was 10 and younger -- oh yes, younger than that; I remember well. Every day was an adventure back then; but not every idea felt completely right.
But this does. And my instincts have never proved me wrong before.
So! I do believe I shall log off, suck up those pesky tears (which are still trying to flood the dams...), do some sketching in my beautifully blank sketchbook, watch some TV for background noise, sip some cocoa, and try my best not to think of this.
We shall see in the morning if the feeling of rightness returns. And if it does?
Watch out, world. Meghan has a goal in mind now.
....
Well, until she becomes president, and then dictator-of-Earth-for-life.
Naturally.
