Wednesday, June 10, 2009


I love to read. I've had a voracious appetite for books ever since I first realized that words strung together told stories. I have a distinct memory of sitting in my desk at the tender age of six and having an "Ah Ha!" moment and finally figuring out how everything went.

My husband has put a cap on my book spending. I can't do libraries. I am just too freaking lazy to get the books back on time and then after a couple months I just plum forget to take them back at all. So no libraries. And I don't like e-books. There is something almost spiritual about opening a hard back book and hearing that first little crack as the binding bends. Then smelling the ink and flipping to the first page to read the deep black letters on the white page. Mmmmm. So I buy books. Lots of them. They litter my house in piles. They sit in my bathroom, in the living room and all over my side of the bedroom.

I use books as an escape. During my precious hour and a half where my kids naps over lap and that last hour of the day that I sneak in before sleep I dive into different worlds. I read purely fluff these days. No deep thinking. Not when I need the time to let my brain rest and recoup. So I read a lot of fantasy and science fiction and I just block out the rest of the world. I can have whole conversations and never recall what was said. My husband's favourite trick is to start a conversation with me about something

I've recently finished my last stash of books. I'm only allowed a ten author roster at a time so I go through the new books at a steady pace. In desperation I have dug deep into books that I've been carting around for the past couple years and found some classic bodice rippers left behind from when my sister was still living with us. I am appalled at the writing, disgusted by the plots but still I can't put the latest one down. There is something that just keeps me reading even though I can feel my i.q. dropping with every paragraph.

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