I love the feel of a book in my hand- the way the pages smell, the flutter of paper, the weight of words carefully selected and arranged, then offered like a gift- to little ole’ me…

I’m enamored by language, written and bound; it’s a passion rivals the depth of my love for my husband (and not occasionally).

I can’t help it. I’m addicted.

There’s something about the rhythm, the pace, the patterns of words and symbols that makes my heart go pitter patter. I read with my heart racing, with tears spilling, fists clenched, toes waving.

My book stalks my psyche even when it’s not in hand. Accounts enthrall and entangle me; plots insist on my distraction. I can’t get enough- fiction or non-fiction, poetry or prose, I’m entirely, overwhelmingly dependent on the written word.

Now you understand why I hate that in between place, when the last lines linger in my mind, where the characters chatter beyond others’ ears, disrupting reality. Waiting finds me grouchy, and withdrawing. Before I know it, I’ve wandered from trails of contentment onto a suspension bridge encompassed by eerie silence-into the emptiness, the void of “No Book” land.

Don’t get me wrong, Cjane is fab, and many of you inspire, but words aren’t the same on a screen.

I need to trace my finger along the lines, write in margins with pencil, flag pages with those miraculous tiny sticky note thingies. (Do those things have a name?)

Somewhere in between The Help and Alone Together, it’s happened again. I’m on the waiting list at the library. Ah, me…

Tell me: Did you love your latest read?  What’s your all time fav? Do you reach for it again and again, or is the memory enough?