The day was relatively quiet since most of it was spent with my head buried in yet another book. I fear I may have found my addiction…books, currently time traveling romance novels where a sexy, intelligent man is able to de-asshole himself right in the nick of time before the able, bright, not-yo-distressed-damsel either kicks his butt or leaves him. She don’t take shit from no one, she is also my hero(ine ) and one whose skills I aim to perfect.
Now you might ask why a seventy year old woman, whose mind, heart (and body, most days) of someone much younger would consciously flip pages of a (formerly known as dimestore) novel of questionable quality.
My reasons are quite simple. I think the time in which we are living requires us to look differently at our world, and I’m increasingly flummoxed as to which might be the best way, therefore I am crawling inside the pages of books to peek at heroines as they solve the many challenges they face…just in case there are ideas I can use. All this plus the books I’m reading have just the right amount of erotica to keep me from nodding off when the verbiage seems annoyingly tedious or the naivety makes me want to pull the character aside for a little tête-à-tête to put them on the right track.
I may have mentioned in one of my earlier word floods that I don’t particularly care for murder mysteries. Why? Because murder is stupid, heartless and a ridiculous solution to any problem, and it is most often messy, which means I’d not be great at a real crime scene. Look everyone dies, eventually, so why would a person want to carry around the burden of having offed someone? And if they don’t care about the repercussions…that’s just plain stupid and stupid people make mistakes and unless they want to get caught, which I suppose some murderers do, they will. Plus, like any form of violence, killing someone does not solve anything but instead creates bigger hassles like getting the blood out of a perfectly good pair of nikes or that silk ruffled blouse that cost an arm and a leg (hopefully not from one of the victims). Murder mysteries are just plain difficult to clean up. Call me the Marie Kondo of literature, I prefer sensual tales and donate Agatha Christie’s and the like to charity.
What about Historic nonfiction? Though exceedingly informative, it can only hold my attention for perhaps twenty minutes at a time. I long ago realized that history often repeats itself (shudder) but that history is most often written by the conquerors. It’s in the eye of the beholder. One can only wonder what historians will record about this period.
I spent a good many years delving into metaphysics and spirituality. A pile of books are in one corner of my living room beckoning me to dust them off for another perusal…but I’m not “there” yet. Who knows what my future holds…perhaps I’ll discover in one of those books.
Did I mention I’m writing my autoB? I’m doing it because most of my former friends and lovers have either moved onto another plain of existence, they don’t read, or I don’t care what they’d think…all this and my kids have asked I do this. I suppose people may consider some of my antics interesting, besides it’s probably good mental exercise.
With so much time on my hands and no place in particular to go, without a mask and hand sanitizer, reading books aren’t the worst I could when it comes to a serious habit and not one I need ever break.