A good book tells a great story. A great book tells a part of your own story. I think it is the search for that that determines my reading forays. Escapism is all well and good. And “junk food” reads, as I call them, have their much needed time and place. But the true journey is achieved in the insights you are given to your own tale, regardless of disparate locations, circumstances, and opportunities.
Sometimes you have to remove yourself from your daily life and routine to do the things that mean the most to you. That is how I happened to find myself snuggled into a vinyl dinette set of a Comfort Inn on a dreary grey morning. The view was of eighteen wheelers slogging down the highway, and I was desperately grasping a paper cup of coffee in one hand and my book (my book!) in the other. I could not have been more content.
Road trips are all about getting out to see places you’ve never been. But in this case, this one morning, it was about getting into a space in my head that I hadn’t had time to visit in quite some time. Page after page I followed where Harry and Marcelo Figueras took me. Reading. Rereading. Wishing there was more when I got to the end, but knowing that I had been given more than enough. It was the road food that would sustain the long day of driving ahead and the soul food to nourish a tireless imagination.