Is it my imagination, or are there way, way more new writers and books out there than there were when I was in college? Every time I turn around, there are brand new books I want to read! Hundreds of them, it seems! I could easily buy twenty books every day and never run out of interesting-looking books to buy. Where are all these authors coming from?
Is it simply a matter of population growth? Of expanding awareness because of the web? Of growth in the self-publishing or print-on-demand sectors?
Honestly, it's impossible to keep up with it all. I could read ten hours a day and never get to the bottom of my to-read pile.......it's growing like the national debt, I think. No sooner do I finish a book than I find myself having to choose the next one and feeling overwhelmed by it all. It's easy, you say, just quit stressing over it and stop reading.
WHAT???? Are you crazy? This is a bondage worse than cigarettes or alcohol or painkillers. I mean, how can I suddenly quit being intrigued by the complexity of characters' situations? By the clever intricacies of plots? What is the drudgery of the daily grind in comparison to the time-travelling, geographical-wandering, and emotional journeying that reading affords me?
How is it that, when Tommy Lynley begins to cry with loneliness after having to break it off with Deborah Cotter, I feel my heart constrict, my eyes burn? When Lizzy Bennett excoriates Darcy for his arrogance and desire to control others' lives and fortunes, I feel his flinching at the injustice and, truth be know, the accuracy of some of her verbal darts?
Characters have been real to me since my childhood. Books have always been my friends. I imagine this will continue to be true for as long as I have eyes to scan the lines or ears to hear the words......or, after both of those have failed, a mind to picture their stories with.
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