Amanda Rae Was Here...

GPOYW: World Book Night—April 23—with longtime employee Mark Billingsley at Explore Booksellers in Aspen, Colorado.

On Monday I spent an hour or so approaching strangers in seemingly literary venues and watching their faces light up when I offered to give them free books.

The day before, I had volunteered to distribute specially bound copies of classic and contemporary novels for World Book Night, a nonprofit literacy movement supported by publishers and distributors in North America, through Explore Booksellers in Aspen, and sort of by accident: When I called to inquire about a calendar listing I’d seen in the paper, I was informed that the 6 p.m. “event” was actually an informal volunteers’ meeting. When the clerk added, with a twinge of regret, that I was the only person who had called, I pitied the bookstore. As a writer I felt a sense of duty to spread word of this great cause, so I agreed to pass out some copies around town the next day.

In the morning I approached ladies at our favorite juice bar—“I’m flying out to New York tomorrow, perfect timing!” one said gratefully—and in the afternoon I hit a bustling coffee shop, where a home-bound Aussie accepted Junot Diaz’s The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I popped into the Wheeler Opera House, where I’d listened to a lovely lecture by Ann Patchett last month, and surprised the box-office attendants with her universally adored Bel Canto. There I ran into a coworker, to whom I gifted The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. We headed around the corner to Aspen Brewing Company for happy hour, where I unloaded my final two tomes: John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany and Maya Angelou’s I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings.

One guy on crutches was especially thankful for the award-winning reading material. “What a cool thing you’re doing!” he enthused. I felt good, standing on the brewery patio in the light of the sunset with my empty shopping bag, because despite its origin from a definite pill- and booze-soaked stupor, his statement was strikingly heartfelt.

Just like a good book.

Agreed.

And yet…I’ve been sick with the flu going on eight days, and while I’ve felt supremely relaxed (though apparently not too relaxed to tear this bit of wisdom when ripping open the package), I haven’t felt very creative.

Mostly, I’ve been achy and sleepy.

Ironically, my sudden-onset immune shutdown was exactly what I needed. It hurt like hell, waking up at 4 a.m. and debating but ultimately forgoing a rush trip to the ER for what felt like a constricted esophagus, but it was necessary.

Once I landed in Aspen, I maintained the same breakneck pace that I had during the trip—So much to see! So much to do! So many people to meet! Work to do! Mountains to conquer!—and, well, uh, that was really foolish. I should have mellowed out. I should have learned my lesson the first time.

So, I’ve been in bed for a week. I’ve missed work $hifts, a desperately-needed haircut, and a couple oddball events about town. Like THIS!:

That one devastated me.

However, aside from feeling like I got beat up by the side of a dark road and left for dead, it’s been nice, this forced relaxation.

On Day Six, a concerned friend commented, “Wow. You must be really bored.”

Au contraire!

When else would I be able to burn through a Netflix queue of  documentaries great (Bill Cunningham New York, Bananas!*, I Like Killing Flies) and so-so yet insightful (No Impact Man, Tupac Shakur: Before I Wake, Tales from the Script); brainless dramas (Limitless, Last Night); and lame comedies (No Strings Attached; sixteen minutes of Take Me Home Tonight)? Yeah, a queue.

I don’t have TV, but I was lucky to catch the new episode of Mad Men. I’ve torn through all of my magazines, all of my housemates’ magazines, and all of the magazines that continue to show up in our mailbox because whomever lived here before didn’t bother to change her address. It’s mostly trash (Cosmo, People), but I don’t mind.

I’ve been eating vegetables by the basketful and I’m letting my fingernails breathe, finally, for once.

Now I’m knocking off the stack of books—real, paper books—that line the one bookshelf in my sparsely furnished sick lair bedroom:

I’ve finished the bottom two; Stephen King (On Writing) always stokes my imagination.

Next up: Walden, which I haven’t read in its entirety—the shame!—but I scored it at that flea market in Phoenix for a buck.

Caption TK

[Bus to Snowmass, Colorado, 3-11 2012]

I might add: with a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure twist.

[via Explore Booksellers, Aspen, Colorado]

Shotgun Library

(Also: seeking audiobook suggestions—any recommendations?)