About a book

Books, book, books. If you don't know me or haven't bothered to look at my header, I love reading. Fiction, non-fiction, memoirs, self-help, magazines, whatever. I love 'em all.

I think I have always liked to read, but it definitely did not become magical to me until Mrs. Melville turned off the lights one day in 3rd grade, had us gather around a chair, and started reading out loud an up and coming book called Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. Well, obviously after she finished the book, my brother and I made my mom go to Costco to get Chamber of Secrets and Prisoner of Azkaban. I remember us waiting for her to pull into the driveway and then running out, yanking the passenger door open and grabbing the books, arguing about who would read the second one first (it was me. It was always me.)

And so began my love for books. When a new Harry Potter book came out, there were only three or four nights of staying up late, feverishly running my eyes back and forth across the page before it was over. So I read lots of other books to fill in the gaps.

Taming that wild stallion into an HP lover

 P.S. Remember my favorite birthday gift of all time? I whipped them out last summer and read the whole series again along with my mom, my best friend, and my husband, all of whom had not partaken of the wizarding world until then. I converted all of them at the same time. I truly, honestly, proudly think of that as one of my happiest accomplishments.

There have been many books over the years. I know this is trite, but I don't know how else to say it: they really are an escape for me. Whether my day is stressful or worry-free, I am always in the mood for a good book. It transports me out of my world for just an hour or so, so even if I am stuck in the same old routine, I don't feel stuck. I don't have to stay put to stay put. 

I am the most obsessive reader. When I am reading a good book, I can hardly think of anything else. I count down the minutes at class or work so I can go snuggle in my bed and become a part of my book world again.

The characters are like, my honest-to-goodness friends. As in sometimes I lay in bed and leak tears on my sheets if I think about my character being sad.

And I always, always have to give myself a few days after reading a book before starting a new one so my fiction friends don't feel betrayed and so I can mentally prepare to move on.

Also, real talk: when I read lots of books, especially that are written beautifully, I find myself thinking grand existential thoughts that are eloquently written out in my mind. I could be mentally criticizing my hair and turn it into a Shakespearean garbled monologue. Don't judge.

Got my book, got my blankie, awake before anyone else...does it get better than this?

When Eric and I first got married, we were living in an apartment with no TV and no WiFi except in the lounge, which was conveniently close enough to go do homework in, but just a little too much of a hassle to walk down to just to browse the inter webs for no good reason but boredom. So I read quite a few books and it was heaven. In the summer, I would take a walk every night to this little canal in our neighborhood and just sit by the water and read until it got dark. 

This year, we have lived in two apartments with WiFi and our apartment now has a nice big TV with cable. Guess what? I haven't read very many books this year. Did Netflix do this to me? Ah, Netflix. While I love reading, I have discovered that watching Netflix is just...easier. So I tend to resort to that when I am tired or bored. I don't even want to admit how many shows I have watched all the way through on Netflix this year. Do you know how many books I could have read in that time? 

So I am trying to change that, without going crazy pyscho let's-get-rid-of-all-our-technology. I think they call that strategy self-discipline. 

Reading for work. Not a bad gig. 

Anyway, I think I have found the perfect book to remind myself why I love to read more than watch TV. I have been reading it nonstop this week. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. My mom has been telling me to read it for years and I have to say I have been missing out. 

I am not quite done with it, but if I may be so bold as to put it in my top 5 favorite books already...well, then...I will. 

It doesn't have such an exciting plot. It's a coming of age story where the beauty lies in the writing style, the meticulous description of early 20th century New York, and the flawed characters you come to love and identify with, no matter how rich or poor, or young or old you are. 

I can't remember the last time I was this swept up in a book that I was dreading the end of. Which reminds me that reading truly is one of the greatest joys in my life. 

Reading The Economist one morning in Ireland and feeling like a real life adult. Strangely, also feeling like an old pipe-blowing british man who wears tweed blazers with elbow patches.

But enough with this Shakespearean garbled monologue. I have a book to finish. And a stack of books to read after that.