Tell me I’m not the only one

I’m feeling rather concerned for myself. I’m sitting in bed, its 12:03 am and I have just finished reading The Paris Wife. I’m having a hard time processing anything else right now.

I think I have a problem. When I read a good book, I don’t read it—I live it. I breathe it. I smell it and feel it and move with it.

If I am interrupted while reading, I’m like a vicious animal, growling on the inside at the person or thing that dared to interrupt my other life. Curse you, oh annoying distraction! Away with you, nasty distraction! Then I clasp the book and immerse myself in it once again, because if I leave it too long, I might never recapture those emotions.

Once the book is over, I need at least 30 minutes before being able to handle life again. I’m emotionally spent, either from excitement, worry, sadness, awe, or a mixed combination. This cannot possibly be healthy.

I was so captivated by The Paris Wife that I just had to blog about it in ‘real time’ (while reading)

I’ve read and re-read that post at least five times now and it just doesn’t cover all the things I want to say about the book. I feel like Hemingway himself, wanting to completely scrap it and start over until I tell the truth. The truth about how sad the book was and how hard I cried for a minute towards the end. The truth about how much I respect the book for being so unreal and real at the same time. *Shiver*

This certainly wasn’t the first book that gave me this experience and it certainly won’t be the last.

Please, dear readers… Please tell me that somewhere out there, at least once, you’ve done this too.


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