china and istanbul

This morning I have gotten up late. I had stolen an extra hour of sleep. At 7:43am now, I have less than three hours before work starts, which means less time to write, but it would all work out if I turn in a productive session. My window is only slightly opened. The air is cold, but my head is clear, at least I’m not yawning and dragging to get back on the bed. Not at all.

I bought two books last night. In Oracle Bone, Peter Hessler writes China with such delicacy that I see and smell the streets as if I’m there. His tone is confident and his facts are solid. Each piece of history connects with a human story, and I learn the history through my own interest in the human stories he narrates. Orhan Pamuk writes Istanbul from a line of memories accumulated from having lived in the city from the time of his birth. How does a writer accurately record a place and a people without the story being blurred by his own attachment?

I was reading these books last night and I ponder if I might want to be a ‘travel writer.’ But first I have to solidify my own writing. Solidify what I do, not just in the sense of coming to write every day, but being able to record things for what they are. I don’t have the money to travel now. Yes, I want to volunteer in Africa, study in England, but very soon, later. Now I work on my craft.