I have an odd talent. I have never met anybody else who does this. I have told only a few and every time I have shared, I've been met with silent glances and subtle confusion.
Often when I read a book, the voice of the author seeps inside my head. For a brief period, I have a hard time not thinking in the language of the story. It's much like getting a song stuck in your head. It lasts for hours, sometimes a day and I enjoy the time.
I choose what to read based on this, often books with beautiful language. It does not always happen and sometimes it's not until the story draws to a close. It does not pour into conversation, but rather it is my inner dialogue. I imagine it like somebody who speaks English as a second language, turning Spanish phrases inside their mind.
Right now, I am finishing up Lena Dunham's new book, Not That Kind of Girl. Which I love! But I am glad it is almost done because this book was absorbed much faster than normal. Likely, because I already know her voice. But now I am there and cannot shake it. If you have seen Girls and you have sat through one of their I-can't-watch-this-I'm-so-uncomfortable scenes, you know what I mean.
I love her work and I feel like I get her writing but she writes nonfiction. Lena's brilliant book is comprised of essays, her life until now. It is presented with wit and hindsight and the vulnerability that she has become known for her. My blog exists, in part as a challenge, to write about myself. Something I have never been particularly good at. And so instead of the words turning outwards to face the world, it is like having a spotlight into the corners of something more personal.
That is probably why I am sharing something today, an ode to her words, her truth.
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