The other day some friends of ours were discussing my usage of "Inkling" on everything. They thought it must symbolize something, but they didn't quite know what that might be. When I told them, they had the typical "aha" moment, and then life went back to normal with our boys playing and the men talking and me sitting quietly and making sure no one toppled Grasshopper over in their enthusiasm for life.
Even though I feel as if part of my brain has disappeared since giving up all teaching jobs and moving to Canada to become a wife and mother, I still try to stay somewhat connected to my love of all things literary. It's not particularly easy when my toddler would rather have me read Goodnight, Gorilla five zillion times in a row. But I try. I even made the owner of a local used bookstore light up when I asked him if he had any John Buchan or Arthur Quiller Couch in stock. I think he'd had one too many people trying to sell him their cast off Danielle Steele's that day, and he needed a sign that not all was lost in the realm of literature appreciation.
So, do you have some literary loves? Do you too wish you could have been invited to an informal meeting of the Inklings? Do you wish you could have known Henry David (the original one, not my husband) to ask him about his writings and thoughts? Or am I the only one surreptitiously smelling books in used bookstores and looking to know Hugo Dyson and his fellow comrades a little better? Please tell me I'm not the only one. But if I am, maybe that's okay. After all, that leaves more Q for me. =)