sharing.

I found this post sitting in the drafts folder, written so long ago that I no longer even remember the titles of the books or the names of the friends in question (also: I'm no longer on Facebook). I thought about trashing it completely, but I still think -- despite the lack of specifics -- what I wrote was true. And that makes it worth hitting publish, I think.

 {from here} 

When you give a book to a friend, it’s like giving a little piece of your soul away. There is so much unspoken pressure, like the tension that exists when you set up two of your best friends and they wind up hating each other.

I loaned a book out the other day to a friend from whom I borrow books quite a bit. I am sure this will sound neurotic, but I’m a little bit of a nervous wreck about it. This book: It was so good. I literally would sit and look up after reading a paragraph or two, hoping someone in the room would somehow miraculously be reading the same book, and we could look at each other and have a moment. We could share a knowing look and immediately become kindred spirits. We would laugh and cry together, shaking our heads at the profound wisdom offered by the writer.

Instead, I published a quote from the book on Facebook and a friend of a friend belittled the author and ruined my Friday. (I am very protective of the books I love, which may contribute to my neurosis. Also: I hate Facebook.)

Such good can come from sharing books, and deep down, this is why I lend out books and borrow the books of others, despite a somewhat bizarre fear of rejection: Because it has the potential for good. (Isn’t this why we do anything: open our homes, give of our funds, ask someone out, risk falling in love?)

Words are powerful, and when you find words that make you laugh and cry and gasp in disbelief… you just want to share them with someone. Well, first you might want to keep them to yourself. But eventually, you want to share. You want to discuss and exchange and grow.

It's why I sometimes lie in bed at night excitedly nudging a sleeping Jordan, reading quotes out loud, hoping he, too, will see the beauty and the genius and the truth. I want him to know what I know, to love what I love, to be moved by what moves me.

Once, not too terribly long ago, I lent out another book that I had loved. And I should clarify here that I don't just loan out anything and everything unsolicited. I am a careful book sharer. In this case, the words of this book had spoken to me, influenced me, and I was sure, just sure, they would speak to my friend.

A few days, weeks, months later, my friend returned the book. I waited with bated breath.

“I didn’t get it,” she said apologetically. No hard feelings, no bruised egos. We were friends, are friends, and will be friends. But it felt a little like someone had punched me. I couldn't catch my breath, couldn't recover.

So currently, my soul is in limbo. The book that I love is out, being read by someone else.

And it is such a risk, I think, to put yourself out there, to share things that speak to you and that are close to your heart.

But I suppose the risk is worth it. And even if the book is despised, I will be glad that I shared it. Because books and ideas and lives and opinions are worth sharing, no matter the nagging mean girl voice inside my head begging me to stay silent, huddled alone in the corner with the words I love.