Those of you who follow me on Twitter know how much I despise winter. I’ve been bitch-tweeting so heavily lately that I’ll refrain from complaining about it here. I don’t ski or toboggan and haven’t had much interest in skating since I hung my Leaside Lazarettes track suit in the late 90’s. I’m more of a summer bunny. Hello Golf! Love you Tennis! My freckles are adorable! And today, after a frosty trip to Book City, I find myself dreaming of summer reading.
Every August, I get to catch up on reading when I head to the shores of Lake Huron with 6 of my favourite people in the world. It’s good quality beach time and I’m quite competitive (with one of them in particular) on the speed reading front. My book choices are easy, as I usually have a stack of unread material at my disposal; remnants of good intentions and BBCE selections.
One from this selection that I read this past summer was Emma Forrest’s memoir, “Your Voice in My Head”, hailed by the New York Times as ‘part of a literary tradition that began long before Susanna Kaysen’s girlhood was interrupted or Elizabeth Wurtzel got her first Prozac prescription.’ In other words, another story about a hot, crazy girl with bad taste in men.
Loved is the word. Loved the writing. Loved Emma. Loved her brutally honest and brave self reflection. Loved the relationship she describes with the therapist that saved her life over and over again. Loved getting a little dirt on Colin Farrell (google it), who I just flat-out love (because I also have bad taste, sister).
Someone recently commented to me that every relationship runs its course eventually. I think that’s right. Sometimes that course is a lifetime, but more often, it’s not. Some relationships don’t mean much. Others mean everything. And when those ones end, it’s hard to let them go. And that’s what Your Voice in My Head is really about. Loved.