Occasionally, when I do my signings, I run across someone who claims they don’t read much (if at all). I always look at them baffled at the idea. I am nothing like my mother, who devours at least a book a week, but the thought of depriving myself of a good book seems torturous. Reading, as they say, is an escape. I get to be a different person. I get to live a different life. It is much the same as writing, in a way, only there I am the creator of that small universe. I love to grab a hold of another writer’s world and let them take me on a ride, one where I neither control the direction nor know the destination.
But, I don’t read for the “normal” books that lead me out of reality. I read for the off chance that it is a page-turning adventure. I love the hart-pounding, mind obsessed, don’t-talk-to-me-because-I’m-reading book. I yearn for those books that capture my very core and cause me to stop everything, counting the hours until I can return to the adventure. I can only hope to be as talented as the writers who capture me so.
I suppose that’s why I look at the self proclaimed non-reader and wonder if they know what they are missing. Would their life be a little richer with a good book? I admire J.K Rowling not because she became a writer superstar, but because she brought a generation into reading with stories that captured thousands. If only I can reach a fraction of that ability.
Now, excuse me while I dive back into the world of books.