I love reading.
Tonight I cried when I saw that the next page in my novel said, "Acknowledgements." In other words, "That's it, folks. The end." I didn't cry because it was a sad ending to the novel. I cried because I just wanted to keep reading and stay immersed in a world I loved with characters who had become dear friends. When I really love a book, I hate getting booted out on that final page, back into reality. Not that reality is bad--I just really love reading.
I have read the following books since I got pregnant three months ago:
The Help, by Kathryn Stockett (464 pages)
Tea Time for the Traditionally Built (No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, #10), by Alexander McCall Smith (212)
The Miracle at Speedy Motors (No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, #9), by Alexander McCall Smith (224)
The Screwtape Letters, by C.S. Lewis (175)
Strong Women Stay Slim, by Miriam E. Nelson (Okay, I only read about half of it, I admit.) (336)
Middlemarch, by George Eliot (1,024)
The Winter of Our Discontent, by John Steinbeck (304)
The Last Lecture, by Randy Pausch (206)
Fablehaven #3: Grip of the Shadow Plague, by Brandon Mull (487)
Fablehaven #2: Rise of the Evening Star, by Brandon Mull (456)
Kissing Doorknobs, by Terry Spencer Hesser (160)
Forest Born, by Shannon Hale (391)
The Kitchen God's Wife, by Amy Tan (416)
Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert (334)
Total: 5,189 pages and hours of delight
I bought "The Help" on the same day that I checked out the latest two Alexander McCall Smith books from the library: Wednesday. Today is Saturday and I feel depressed because I've finished all three and I have nothing to read on Sunday afternoon. If this is an addiction, I don't want to recover.
I love reading.