I am not Catholic, but if I could and knew how, I would crawl into a confessional and admit my guilt.
Sadly, my confession will firmly place the blame on another person. One I don’t know, but will blame anyways for my inability to accomplish anything important yesterday and today.
The first half of my confession is to admit that I am a hopeless book addict. Over the years, I have gotten much better, and can actually read a book over an entire month. I hate to do that, as I love sitting down with the characters and the story and gorging myself on their lives. However, Real Life usually gets in the way and I have to read a book in bite size pieces and be content with a page or two at a time.
A few days ago, I finished Graceling. Kristin Cashore’s debut novel was such a delight that I couldn’t stop reading until I devoured the entire thing in less than a half a day–with interruptions. Oh, the dreaded interruptions.
Which leads me to the second half of my confession. Last night, I cracked open the companion book to Graceling. Fire was just as riveting and amazing and heartfelt as the first.
I read myself to sleep and (don’t hate me, dear fam) couldn’t wait to rejoin the characters again this morning. I almost pushed my kids off to school and I’m quite certain DH felt more than a little confused at my rushed peck and absent-minded good-bye as he left the house. My book was waiting.
I blame Ms. Cashore. Her charge is writing a great book. I hope someday to write lyrical tales that make people want to kick their family out of the house, curl up with a blanket, a cup of hot coffee and live in a land of my make-believe.
If I ever succeed in doing this, I will gladly take the blame for loyal readers hurriedly sending their families away and coveting hours of solitude where they get absolutely nothing done. I would love nothing more than to learn that someone cared enough about my characters to forget the laundry in the wash machine. It would make me giddy to envision a reader pulling her nose out of my book, blinking into the waning light and realizing with a rush of excitement and disappointment that an entire day had magically slipped away.
Kudos to Kristin Cashore for giving me one spell-binding day in which the laundry is unwashed, the dishes piled in the sink and dinner a slap dash of whatever there is in the house. I hope to pull myself together and pull off the illusion that I did, indeed, accomplish something before DH gets home. Otherwise, he may not feel so inclined to let me purchase her next book.
And that would be a tragedy.