I just started reading a book I purchased at a yard sale over the summer, a true bargain at two for a quarter. (The other book I picked was “Must Love Dogs”.) Its title is “The Pull of the Moon” by Elizabeth Berg. It is the story of a 50-year-old woman going through menopause who goes on a trip to “find herself.” The format is composed of “letters” to the character’s husband alternating with journal entries. The writing is vibrant and introspectively emotional; the images detailed and beautiful. As I read it I feel the bittersweet pang of writing envy, the not-unpleasant feeling of admiring the writing to the point that I wish I had written it: the ultimate compliment.
The book was published 15 years ago, but for me, it is as if its character/author was sitting down and having lunch with me right now, and I feel blessed. I feel as if she is giving me a much-needed hug, reassurance, and laughter; it is a wonderful relief and joy. The author may be 10 years older than me, but for right now, she is the same age. She is telling me that I’m okay and there’s nothing wrong with me. For this moment in time, she is my friend. For someone else picking up the book 10 years from now, she will once again be the perfect age and a perfect friend. I SO love books!!