Turning the Pages


In anticipation of the multiple {hopefully} basketball posts that will be writtin in the coming weeks, I'm going to write about something completely different...brace yourself...


Riveting topic I know.

And with that said, I'm going to need some serious reassurance after you read this post that I'm not alone in what I'm feeling...


I have always been a reader and can read just about anything, unless of course it's boring.  Up until recently I'd been on a John Grisham kick. I have ready nine of his books since December. NINE! Hubbs thinks I'm a little crazy I think, but they're excellent. Some were better than others, but I enjoyed all of them.
image via here
Bleachers was the most recent read of his, and it was so different than any of his other novels. He used to be a lawyer, so naturally his subject tends to go down the legal road more often than not. This one, though, was about football and I highly recommend this book. It's a quick read, but you still get sucked in.

Next I read  Heart of the Matter by Emily Giffin. As I said in a previous post, I liked and disliked it all at the same time. It was well written, as her books usually are, but the subject is what I disliked.

Last night I finished The Help by Kathryn Stockett and I was positively captivated. It starts off a little slow, but by the time I was to the halfway point, I was hooked. Several people have suggested this book to me including my friend Nicole and my mom, and I am so thankful that they did because I was seriously missing out.
**Side-note, this is being made into a movie that comes out August 12th and I can't wait to go see it.**

Now comes the part where I need for y'all to tell me that I'm not crazy. When I'm getting close to a book that I'm really enjoying and/or absorbed in, I start to feel sad and like I should read slower. But at the same time, I cannot wait to see how it everything resolves. It's quite the internal battle going on in my head for the last fifty pages. And then when I've finished, I have this silly sense of sadness and something else that resembles disappointment.  I want the story to continue. I want to know what happens to these characters and the rest of their lives {not literally, but you get what I'm saying}.  I suppose it just comes from the fact that after reading about them and their thoughts, struggles and triumphs for over 300 pages {giver or take}, I always want there to be more. And when I've close that book for the last time and it sinks in that there is not and will not be more, I'm sad. No tears or anything. Just the finality of saying "goodbye" to the individuals in the book can be...I do not want to say 'sad' again because I feel as though I've said it too much already and all the synonyms are so dramatic sounding. But you get it, hopefully. And if you do, then I need you to reassure me that I'm not alone.

And if you don't get it...well...I'm sure I sound quite unhinged to you.

You can't get a cup of tea big enough or a book long enough to suit me.  - C. S. Lewis

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