Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Confessions of a Book Lover

I love the moment I start a new story.

I hold the book for a few moments before opening to the first page, running my hands along the outside covers, letting my fingertips test the edges of the pages.  I imagine where the story and I might go.

Opening the cover of my book, I gaze at the first pages.  I see the title and author, publisher and copyright while the book smell overwhelms my senses.

Reaching the first page, I sink into the words, mind buzzing in anticipation.

Willing to suspend my disbelief providing the author creates a logical world, I enjoy almost every story and the place it takes me.  In one of my major courses in college, we read southern fiction and wrote critical papers about each work.  After reading my paper on In Country by Bobbie Ann Mason, Professor Grunst wrote, "You convince me the story is better than I thought.  I'm going to have to read it again." 

The best stories make my heart ache.  I remember first reading Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.  Mom sent me to Maus Foods to purchase diced tomatoes in the middle of Jane's heartbreak.  Still lost in the story, I watched people paying for groceries and wondered why no one else was worried about poor frozen and hungry Jane.  That was the same summer I read Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy and The Brothers Karamazov by Fydor Dostoyevsky.  It was a depressing summer.

Kindle Schmindle. 

There's nothing like savoring a new book and the story it holds.

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