The Novel and A Wish

I've taken to carrying around paperbacks whenever I leave the house. Philip Roth has seen better days; scratched with sand, pages torn and front cover nearly decimated. And this is what I adore most about books. The novel goes through human experiences in which no other medium of work can travel while simultaneously influencing animate life. Life and the novel can became attached, a sort of symbiotic relationship. When I see a book I have read I know exactly where I was during that read, and what I was going through. It's a profound relationship, perhaps common with music, maybe art, not film. . . I remember reading Bukowski for the first time while working a dead-end job. I took old Bukowski with me on my hour-long city bus commute. I sneaked in some words during cubicle lapses, during cigarettes and food. That book witnessed spiritual misery. Then suddenly, near the end of the book, I raised a fist at my boss, kicked over a chair and quit.
Or reading Hemingway on train in Germany and speaking in only declarative sentences during that read. Shit, Anais Nin was a dangerous one. It was during a careless time in my life, and I ended up high on opium with a few naked strangers in a bathtub greased with Crisco. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. And now I'm in a solitary phase reading Philip Roth and consequently analyzing the minute details and causes that propel human emotions and actions.
As a person becoming more interested in writing, I have also become more conscious of style and affect. Which I suppose has been the purpose of this blog site; exploring different voices and characters and how the story is told or a thought expressed. And as the sun is now setting on my 29th birthday, the voices of all my experiences rattle and echo in my head, all wanting to heard and not drowned by alcohol or quick blog, I am birthday-wishing that I will find the right one during this next year to be my teller and begin my first attempt at a novel of my own.