The price of happiness.

I bought a book online. I felt a little guilty as I didn’t have enough money to pay the rent due Monday. Then I felt a little guilty for not buying it from a bookshop. But at the same time, it was amazing how easy it was over the net. I was soon awash in the warm expectation of the book arriving in the post. The book was by an American woman who I had never previously heard of. That was the other good thing about the internet. It was so easy to find people who were such good writers who you had never heard of. People like Raymond Carver. I was yet to buy one of his books. But apparently, he was a bit minimalist. Speaking of minimalism, the woman whose book I had ordered won a major literary prize for a short story that was only one-page long. Being naturally lazy and non-talkative this really appealed to me. Anyway, this was on a Friday. Come Monday morning I still didn’t have the money for the rent. Then later in the day a client who owed me money finally coughed up what he owed me and I was able to sort out the bills. I felt a sense of relief but I knew the small amount I paid for the book wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. Later in the week, the book arrived in the post. Seriously, it was like Santa himself came to visit. My usually sad self was overwhelmed by happy feelings. I felt validated. I felt I had finally found a member of my crew. And I hadn’t even turned a page. I knew the book would be everything I expected. These would not be distant tales. These were invitations to participate. Do you feel what you are writing she said? Don’t listen to others. Go with your instincts. I remember the one-page story I had earlier read online had a big dash in it straight at the end of the first line. I was so impressed. I had not used the dash before. It was bold. It was the Clarion. It was speaking out. And the story itself vibrated like a sex toy. I spent the rest of the week reading the 49 stories in the book. Oh my god. This woman was amazing. Her name? Lucia Berlin. I knew life was a risk and that something was better than nothing. I was really happy I had done what I really wanted and bought that book. I felt connected to where I wanted to be. I was free to search for what I was really feeling and why. I remembered how twice my parents went to Fiji without me when I was young. Why was that I thought? Was there something wrong with me? Something my parents did not want others to know about. Was I badly behaved, too noisy, inappropriate? Or was it that they just did not care about me? No. The problem was that my twin cousin died in Fiji.  My parents being the anxious people they were probably did not want to take me there.