Bookworm Adventure

I have this sudden interest in going back to reading books and suddenly losing interest in glossy fashion magazines that has somehow given me frivolous ideas on material possessions. Probably that sense of guilt when our son asked if the book he was holding was mine, to which my husband replied. “That’s daddy’s book. Mommy only has ONE book.” Beep-Beep! What-the-@#**#@!!!! I found myself justifying the lack of literary interest, “excuse me but I just had a child. I don’t have the luxury of time. I don’t spend hours inside the bathroom to finish 10 chapters. I’d rather spend my money for worthwhile things than spend on something I don’t have time for. Etc. etc.”

You “have one book is equivalent to”, you don’t read. You’re not feeding your mind. It’s static. Immobile. It has become just plain gray matter. Meatball that has turned to mush.

Or has pregnancy and hormonal changes made me more sensitive and emotional?

Months ago I have started on a handful of titles by Stephen King and Tom Clancy. I got bored, I was distracted, I stopped reading and wasn’t able to finish any of them. Unusual since I love the mystery and suspense of espionage and bizarre frightening stories of once lovable pets coming back from the grave. When I was younger I used to love my Agatha Christie mystery novels, I was a sucker for good ole reference books that my dad brought home from his trips abroad. I owned a shelf-full of Nancy Drews, graduated from that and went through a Stephen King phase. Misery, The Shining, Pet Sematary, and Carrie were the first titles sold at National Bookstore.

Patience is only a virtue for me if it entails waiting for my husband to down a few SMB rounds with the boys. But it’s not exactly a personal trait. Which means big thick paperbacks with titles like, Star, Mysterious Love, The Love Affair, are a turnoff. Ergo I go for short stories with political undertones, mysteries and haunting tales from F. Sionil Jose to Alfred Hitchcock. I’m not a big fan of Anne Rice but I wouldn’t be caught dead reading anything with Danielle Steele’s glittery embossed name on the front page. That movie ‘You’ve Got Mail’ didn’t even make me read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. But I’ve read all 3 Tolkien series of The Lord of The Rings to fully understand the 3 movies I was about to watch. Even the first 2 Harry Potter series. I read “Band of Brothers” by Stephen Ambrose, real life WWII story that follows E-Company, a young group of paratroopers from Normandy to Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest. Simply because I love war stories and the HBO movie had a good looking bunch of men in uniform. Just my type.

“You’re never going to finish that book” are his disheartening words that has pushed me to a chapter to chapter marathon until my eyes resemble a symptom of rubella. I’m down to 10 chapters of John Le Carre’s ‘A Constant Gardener’, and I will finish it.

Move on to Hannibal Rising or that new title from Nick Hornby. They say reading not only improves your comprehension, vocabulary and cognitive skills. Psychologists say it creates a sense of clarity and inner peace. Now I don’t know about that inner peace but, at least something up there is still moving. I’ll find that peace once I finish the story. LEVEL UP!