I’ve always been a dreamer. That’s not to stay I shirk my responsibilities. But when things get really rough, I escape… sometimes a movie, but mostly through books. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have books in my life. From the time I was small, I was always surrounded by them. The stories enchanted me, taking me to wonderful places I would never get the opportunity to go in real life, or teaching me things I would never learn in my everyday life. They were my portal to the unknown and the fascinating. To this day, they hold that power over me. They are my escapism, my center when life gets too crazy to deal with.
The past couple of weeks have been like that for me. Trying to learn something new, but no one has time to answer questions. Someone close to me suddenly pulled the rug out from under me. Figuratively, thank goodness, but it still hurt. A lot of little things mount up. I’m strong, up to a point. My mask is firmly in place, hiding the insecurities of a lifetime. I’m not as thick skinned as people think. I hurt, I retreat.
I’ve been doing a lot of reading. The bright side is that I found three new favorite authors. I finished their first series, and have all intentions of delving into their other works. I love finding a story that I get caught up in. The characters become my friends, and I live in their world for a brief time. When the story ends, I find myself at a loss. I don’t want to lose my new friends. I’m sure you all know where I’m coming from. Last night, I finished the last of a four-book series. That makes eleven books in less than a week. I find myself at the intersection of What’s the Next Book? and I have Work to do.
Play time’s over, time to get back to work. I have my own story to write.
Till next week,