Besides the intense anger I felt when told my cancer had come back, was a fear. Not just of death, but that I would never be able to read every book in my library. It was devastating to come to terms with the fact that I probably could, if I dedicated myself to the effort. And it would be an effort.

That thought didn’t last long though. The word “effort” should never be used in the same sentence as reading. At least not when reading for pleasure. (I’ve been to college. I’ve tried to read Chaucer. Making a generalization about effort and reading then would be wrong.)

So I decided to cull my stacks. I sat down and forced myself to be honest about which books I truly want to read and which ones I could wait to read, or would not regret removing them, possibly permanently.

It’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I love books. I love having a library.

I am finding it hard to remove rather than add to my shelves. Being realistic sucks. Where is that genie to grant me that wish of not being able to die until I read all the books in my library?

My library is an inspiration as well as an escape mechanism. It also has helped me write, or at least write better. In reading, I learn more about structure, characterizations, plot, etc. I see what is done well and what fails.

I miss writing. I have so many ideas, but working them into stories, even a novel is a daunting task. I do love reading essays and writing them. So I will do that, and keep this journal going hoping it will lead to bigger and better things. Also, I will play more with short fiction and flash fiction.

Baby steps. That’s what I need.

I want to write. I want to read. I want to live.

And I will continue to do all of these until I can’t do them anymore.

And I will continue to cull my stacks. Lightening the load I leave behind. But I’m going to do it slowly, and at times I will be replenishing with books I want to leave behind. My son is developing his own love of books, and if I leave behind any kind of legacy, I can’t think of a better one than a library.

Look at me. Already talking about what I’ll leave behind. To hell with that. It’s defeatist and I haven’t given up, not by a long shot.

So forgive me if at times, my rambling fails to acknowledge the life I have, and focuses too much on the one I feel like I’m losing. Again, that damn realism seeping in. I need a reality-proof slicker. Preferably a bright and annoyingly cheery one.

Off to check Overstock.com!

He almost wished he was numb again, his thoughts thick with alcohol, cleansing away the reality he wasn’t good at dealing with. Panic barely bubbled beneath the surface, seeking to escape. He was determined not to let it win. It screamed for a drink. He refused, finding strength and a will to go on.

And go on he did, toiling through the night, tagging and bagging each body as it arrived. It was the first night after returning from rehab when they arrived.

The report said a drunk had killed them instantly. All he could think about was his own murky memory of being behind the wheel drunk. He wasn’t able to remember exactly how he got there, but he can’t forget with who.

The only thing that kept him from drinking again was writing her name on the whiskey bottle he kept on his nightstand. Every time he looked at it, desperate for a shot, he remembered how she struggled with her last breath, using it to curse him for what he’d done.

He buried her along with his addiction.

With no way to forget her, or forgive himself, he had nothing to do but what he did best, taking care of the bodies.

Just like them.

Just like her.

© J.C. Montgomery, 2010