Romanticize 2: Turn the Page
Some time travel, some bibliomancy.
I still have the old copy of Emily of New Moon by L.M. Montgomery that I took everywhere with me as a kid—somehow, its paperback cover remains crisp and its spine is only moderately lined; I clearly grew up treating the tome with the reverence it stirred in me. It now sits on a shelf atop my writing desk, beside a first edition of the book that I found for a steal online many years ago. I glanced up at it recently and felt the urge to crack it open and read a random page. And so, today’s Romanticize was devised.
The Romanticize
Perform bibliomancy using a favorite book from years past.
The Advice
Bibliomancy is the act of opening a book to a random page and letting whatever you read deliver a message about your current or future state. You can ask a question before you perform bibliomancy, or you can just let the writing speak to you.
Before you begin, hold the book in your hands and think about who and where you were the first time you read it.
Be open to whatever the page tells you—read it a few times just to take it in before attempting to interpret it through the lens of certain wishes or troubles. You might feel drawn to one page or both, or to just a paragraph, a sentence, or a word. Follow your attention.
The Inspiration
I wish I could remember the day I first met my beloved childhood book. The odds are good that it happened at the local library, as I was hunched over—the scratchy blue industrial carpet leaving indentations in my knees—inspecting one of the lower children’s section shelves. Surely, the title called to me. So dramatic! So romantic! And then, when I pulled it out by the spine and held it face-up: that cover. A dark-haired, pale-skinned girl who looked a lot like me, sitting in the middle of a field with a book open in her lap, a beloved animal at her side, her expression equal parts defiant and wistful. A soulmate!
I was a pretty solitary, lonely kid, and Emily made me feel seen. Like her, I felt the irrepressible urge to write, I loved spending time in nature, I read anything I could get my hands on, I adored animals, and I saw magic in everything around me. For both of us, ordinary situations were easily dramatized—we found, and made, excitement everywhere. I’d sit in the woods behind my house, dubbed Katieland, and write in my journal, dreaming of the day that I could “live by my pen,” as Jo March once said, and nod sagely whenever Emily implored, “Why, I have to write—I can't help it at times—I've just got to.”
Within that context, young Katie would twirl with glee until she passed out to know all that I’ve done so far as a writer—the publications I’ve contributed to, the celebrities I’ve interviewed, the fact that I’ve written a book. That knowledge makes my daily frustrations and practical concerns feel deeply diminished. Silly, even. It’s flattering and validating to look at our lives through the eyes of our younger selves every so often.
I chose to open my old book without asking it a question—I just sat with it pressed against my heart for a few moments, then flipped through until I felt the urge to stop. The page I landed on was the start of chapter 29, titled Sacrilege. It details Emily’s struggles with her strict Aunt Elizabeth, who doesn’t agree with her spending money on writing paper. Emily’s aunt believes “fiction of any kind was an abominable thing,” but, where Aunt Elizabeth generally prevails in arguments, she finds herself losing to Emily’s stubborn nature on this point. Emily respectfully stops buying paper, but she instead writes on scraps of anything she can find—“pieces of brown wrapping paper and the blank backs of circulars.” Whose sacrilege is this, really? Aunt Elizabeth’s, for trying to smother her niece’s nature? Or Emily’s, for following her calling in spite of authoritative opinion? Perhaps questioning what we think we consider sacred is a necessary step for growth…
To me, this represents the push and pull I feel between my practical and creative natures—especially now when all I want to do is spend every day giving in to the latter. But my creative pursuits don’t yet fully pay the bills, and so I persistently “write on scraps” until it becomes my reality. I consider security deeply sacred, but it comes at the expense of spiritual freedom. I take these pages as a sign that I must always question the balance I place on these things in my life, and rewrite the stories I’ve been told—and told myself—about what creative living actually means.
I’d love to know the results of your Romanticize—feel free to share your experience in the comments, or tag me on Instagram. Until next Wednesday, fellow romantics!