I read the same way I write. I think the world could literally explode around me whilst reading or writing and I would be oblivious. In both of these practices I am completely present/lost/hypnotised by where I am in my head.
I have spent the last two days absolutely absorbed in The Book Of Life by Deborah Harkness. This is the final book in her All Souls Trilogy. I started reading them after a recommendation from someone during 2014, I think a colleague (if so, thank you Michelle). I devoured the first two last Christmas/New Year, and thought it was only fitting to finish the third one now. Something in balance.
The hardest part of life during term is fitting in reading; I hate not being able to read in very long sessions, like today. Reading for ten hours straight only breaking for food and the toilet, oh, and putting washing on the line and pulling it off the line.
Bliss. Blessed. Captivating.
If you haven’t read this trilogy, and love tales about vampires or witches or daemons or history or love, then this is the trilogy for you.
It tells the tale of Matthew and Diana, their love story spanning centuries, and Diana’s acceptance of her identity as a witch. It weaves historical fact and fantasy seamlessly. Majick inherent in the writing style as much as in the tale; Deborah Harkness weaves her spell over the reader throughout.
Another aspect for me today was focusing on how she shows rather than tells; a weakness in my own writing. And I came to realise the importance of tagging dialogue for consistency in comprehending who is speaking.
I am grateful for my ability to read. It has provided me with hours upon hours of entertainment and escapism throughout my life, knowledge and insurmountable wisdom. I think, that without reading, I would have died a long time ago.
As much as I resented not receiving dolls as gifts when I was younger, I am eternally grateful now for the gift of books that I received in their stead.
I am able to live many lives in one lifetime.