Sasha, you were once so arrogant to say, “I’ll always have time for reading.” [Insert a crack of lightning:] In the chant of many a spoiled mistress, books demanded you make time for them, and who were you to disobey? [Ahem.] Well, pumpkin, the Universe decided to take you down a notch: You are now so busy, you don’t know where you end and work begins; you are now so grateful for those toothbrushing minutes that allow you to read the calorie content of toothpaste. Look at your life, Sasha; look at your choices.
Since I last checked in, real life has been roly-poly, and as has my reading. I’ve been crawling toward romance novels because they feel most like the best, softest blanket; I’ve immersed myself in sweeping epics mostly because they’re so intent on possessing you for days on end; I’ve also amassed and peeked into nonfiction books that, I am certain, will have no conceivable application, ever. Life’s been peachy.
But yesterday. Well, yesterday, it was precisely because I’d wanted to avoid reviewing my life choices that I started reading. I read two volumes of a horror-fantasy graphic novel, I read an okay-enough romance novel, and then, egad, my hand drifted toward my little David Levithan book and I just started reading it and I felt like I was back. And then I picked up the most gorgeous graphic novel ever—Asterios Polyp—and I felt like crying. And eating cheesecake. And I felt that blessed reunion with books, but I also had that tug, that need (I realize now) to share my reading, to have conversations.
So here I am. It took me a while, but here I am. Sometimes all it takes is the right book—perhaps an normal, quite unassuming little book—to wrench you away from real life. Or help carry you off farther and farther and farther away.