I used to be a writer

Started reading Nabokov's "Mary." It's a cheap old paperback from the 1970's that maybe I bought for $.50 at some used bookstore, though I don't remember that. It also seems like I started the book once upon a time, but never finished it. Only none of it seems familiar so far, so maybe I made that up too.

I wish I had the scholastic vocabulary to explain what it is I like about Nabokov's writing. But I don't. I just know that somehow it inspires me. Which maybe is enough.

I used to be a writer, you know? OK, technically, I still am. Professionally, at any rate, it is what I do. But mostly I forget. I go through the motions, because that's what pays the bills. And sometimes what comes out ain't too bad, maybe even good.

Anyway, reading Nabokov reminds me that I love writing. I love reading. It reminds me of the me in college who spent hours in the library or sitting under a tree somewhere devouring book after book--the me who used to write something everyday.