I love to read.
I've said it many times.
What you may not know is that I don't read literature. And by literature, I mean serious books.
I have not read Water for Elephants. Or The Help. Or any other book you may discuss at your book club.
I read crime. Mysteries. The occassional romance.
I'm extremely faithful to my authors. My favorite of all time is John Sandford. The rest is tied between Nora Roberts, Johnathan Kellerman, Charlaine Harris, Janet Evanovich, Faye Kellerman, and recently, I added Linda Castillo to the list. My bookshelves are overflowing. I own every book each of these people has written.
I do have some books by Jeffrey Deaver, Stephen White and James Patterson, but they are not a complete collection. I own The Stand by Stephen King (favorite book ever) and we own all the Harry Potter and Hunger Games books. For the most part, I have a happy little box of authors I enjoy and I stick with those authors.
Right now, I'm getting in these authors latest books. I have the latest by Johnathan Kellerman, JD Robb, Nora Roberts, and Charlaine Harris. They are sitting in my summer tubs with our swimsuits and beach towels and I'm trying to wait until vacation to read them.
I failed miserably on Saturday. This book came in the mail. It taunted me. "You can't wait another 40 days" it said. It was right. I ended up picking up the book about 11 am Saturday. And finished it about 7 pm. It was that good. That gripping.
I've been feeling a little ungrounded. Like I'm scattered and can'd find my center. Saturday, wrapped up in reading this book, in these characters, I found it again.
Lose yourself in a book. I don't care if it's a Sihouette romance or Henry David Thoreau. You owe yourself that much. Fill your cup. Me = Much better person for having done so.
