I have a confession to make. It’s a problem of exponential proportions, and I desperately, desperately need help.
I’m a writer, and I hate books as much as I love them.
It’s like an abusive relationship, really. Where I love the guy, but he deprives me of the very things I need to live–and I hate him for it.
You see, I find a book and I start reading. Next thing I know, I can’t stop. It draws me in, like an addiction, I’m always running back. I feel like a drug addict sneaking into the bathroom late at night for that quick fix.
Suddenly, my life goes on hold so I can see what happens on the next page. I forgo:
Soon, I’m a zombie all day. And starving. Yet feeling fat. I can’t write, I can’t think, I can’t drive … But I need to know what will happen in that next chapter!
So I put off a homemade dinner again. And I stay up until 1 a.m., even though I must wake at 5 for work. I complain to my boyfriend how life seems overwhelming because I’m so sleep-deprived, but when 10 p.m. rolls around, I jerk myself alive again.
Because I’m reading.
My heart races as I flip from page, to page, to page. Will she find her love? Will he die on the island? What happened to her maid growing up? Time stops as I approach the end, and I feel myself holding my breath … praying.
And finally, it ends.
I take a week or two and life returns to normal. I make salmon with whole-grain pasta in the evening again. I return to my weight machine and treadmill. My boyfriend breathes a sigh of relief.
Until, I find the next book …
MY QUESTION TO YOU: What are your confessions when it comes to your writing, reading, or other little pleasures in life (please keep it PG)?
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C’mon, you MUST be thinking something.