The $49.33 escape
Books, butter and the battle for inspiration
“I’ll just take a quick look,” I told myself firmly—a reminder not to spend even a dime before walking out of the bookstore with three new books in hand (lighter in spirit, sure, but $49.33 poorer).
The winners: The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac (on sale, had to); Instructions for Traveling West, a book of poems by one of my favourite Substack writers, Joy Sullivan (not on sale); and the Fall 2024 edition of Tricycle (also not on sale).
You’d think I’d know myself better by now—have I ever left a bookstore empty-handed? (No.) Perhaps that’s why I conned myself into going in the first place.
Lately, I’ve been in desperate need of inspiration. It seems capitalist duties have besieged me, and I’ve been feeling quite dead inside, for lack of a better word.
The bookstore is typically the place that brings me back to life—the words of so many creators before me breathing oxygen into my lungs like literary CPR. All it takes is one line, one breath, to revive my imagination—a new dawn, a fresh canvas painting the sky.
Still, I intended to remain loyal to my vow of not buying anything during a quick trip to the bookstore between meetings. Things went south about ten feet in when I saw a new display filled with Sudoku puzzles and discounted classics. I passed on the Sudoku (at least until I’m through my current collection) but quickly scooped up The Dharma Bums. What a wonderful contradiction promising a “heroic odyssey” between a Zen Buddhist (mountaineer and poet) and a “zestful, innocent writer,” from “jam sessions in San Francisco’s Bohemia to solitude and mountain climbing in the High Sierras.” I was instantly sold.
Besides, all I’ve been reading lately is theory—actual, dense theory. Interdisciplinary theory, to be exact, which I have questions about and need to analyze for my next class discussion. While important and insightful in its quest for inclusivity, the theorizing can become cumbersome. My brain feels like it’s being pressed into toast like a piece of butter, spreading thin before melting away into nothingness (though real butter, unlike my brain, never tastes like nothingness but of pure heaven). So, I decided that while studying for my master’s, I’d still make time to read for pleasure.
Not that I have any time to read for pleasure. A colleague recently told me she completed her master’s in the middle of the night while her two young children slept, setting an alarm to make it to class. I’ve been fortunate not to need such alarms, but I’ve certainly nodded off as the clock nears midnight, my eyes as heavy as boulders.
So, I’ll make time—the same kind of time that led me to spend $49.33 I hadn’t planned to—because sometimes, inspiration and pleasure are what keep you going. They fuel you through the long nights, knowing that in the morning, there’ll be a fresh pot of tea steeping, and the crisp fall air will beckon you to pick up a book and find yourself again.