I used to read all the time. Hours and hours. I’ve read for eight hours straight easily. Unfortunately I read everything I knew was good, and, for awhile, it seemed that all the well-written books I picked up were full of graphic sex or murder or other nasty things. This really bothered me. I am very sensitive and often completely immerse myself in books, speaking and writing in the same tone and language as the author for hours and days after reading. So I gave up my beloved fiction and enjoyed the often safer non-fiction. Then, a couple years ago, I got completely sick of it. I used to be able to read an informative book in a couple days, and now it was taking me months and months. I resigned myself to no longer being a reader. It was sad as it had been such a part of who I knew myself to be, but at least I had become a writer. I assumed that I had simply read to learn how to write and that reading had been replaced by a higher calling.
On a whim, I purchased a copy of Real Simple magazine at the check out stand at Wal-Mart a few days ago. I came across a section devoted to reader comments. The editors had asked their readers to tell them their favorite love stories. One commenter shared her love for The Blue Castle by L.M. Montgomery, stating that she had worn out several copies due to rereading. While I had never heard of The Blue Castle, I was and am very familiar with L.M. Montgomery, author of the Anne of Green Gables series. Knowing Ms. Montgomery to have married a minister, I felt fairly confident there would be no illicit sex or other profanities or vulgarities in the aforementioned romance novel. I researched and finally found a reasonably priced copy online. (Apparently the book is hard to find and a bit pricey.)
It arrived today, and in far better condition than I had expected considering the price. I promptly devoured it, stopping only to spend a few precious hours with my husband before he had to leave for work. It greatly exceeded my every expectation. I probably read the whole thing in about four or five hours.
I am still a reader!!!! My love for reading has not died, only my ability to find books I am willing to read has been significantly impaired these last few years. I feel so happy. I feel myself again in ways I haven’t felt for a long, long time. The house is in utter chaos and, unusually, I don’t care one tittle. I’ve spent hours, like the heroine of the story, in my own Blue Castle. I am deeply content.
Le sigh, le sigh.
I am tempted to read it again.