I pulled it off of the shelf and studied its cover. It was printed down the spine of a light pink book. As I organized the Essays shelf, my eyes glazed over the name Didion. It was at my local bookstore, Anderson’s Bookshop in Larchmont, New York, that I first picked up a Joan Didion book. The more I see her, the more inspired I feel. I decorate my life with her face and her words because I want to be her. In fact, this New Year’s Eve, as my grandfather and I sat side by side on the couch, we realized that we were both reading “Slouching Towards Bethlehem. Each time one of those people reads a book by her, they notify me. What I want and what I fear”.Įach time the New Yorker publishes an article about her, I receive a link from my best friend, both grandparents, and my mother. My laptop has a sticker on its cover reminding me of why I write, in her words: “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. My computer background is a black-and-white photograph of her smoking up against a Stingray car.
There is a portrait of her above my desk- clad in a floral blouse with a cigarette balancing between her fingers, her dark eyes stare at me as I write. Her wisdom surrounds me in my daily life. Any number would be too small and there is more to this obsession than just my collection of books. Her importance in my life should not be diminished to a number. Perhaps I don’t want to count them because that would quantify my love for their author. They shuttle back and forth between houses constantly. It’s as if these books are children living in a split custody situation. Some are on my IKEA bookshelf at my family home in the suburbs of New York. Some are in my dorm room, piled on my window sill overlooking East Tenth Street. I own more books by Joan Didion than I can count. Joan Didion books on a bookshelf, photo by Alexa Donovan
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