Bedtime reading is habitually a diary or journal – the favourites being those of May Sarton. She found literary fame in her final years, principally through the journals, which then led people to go back to her novels and poems. I’ve mentioned before how it feels like communing with an old friend, though there is always the caveat that any writer rarely exposes themselves warts and all. However, she seems to do a very good job. I read through the journals in sequence, following them with a biography, so by the end of that (it takes about 2 years!) I am in need of a change. Doris Grumbach was a Maine writer at about the same time, so I go on and read a couple of hers.
A creature of habit indeed, and of course it helps to ensure a decent night’s sleep – unless one of them is sharing a sad story – there are a few of those in amongst the nature watch, routines of Maine life throughout the year, visitors, talks, reviews and illnesses.
But all is not well at bedtime these days. I find myself coming to the end of a day’s entry and I immediately want to write a comment. Online reading of blogs and articles has made me used to expressing an opinion, and I miss it with the printed word. Does anybody else have this trouble?