Thought Trafficking

Predilection for fiction (an addiction, write me a prescription)
June 18, 2009, 2:33 am
Filed under: being selfish, living, Reading | Tags: ,

When it comes to things that I like, I can be obsessive. Junior high (all of it) was a vivid example of this. Generally, however, I like to think that now that I have reached a more mature stage in my life (don’t ask me how I know) I can keep my compulsions under control. There are two jarring exceptions to this perhaps fanciful perception. One is books, the other is knitting. When I am really involved in a project, be it a good yarn or the other kind of good yarn, it is upsetting if it stretches over more than two days. I want to know then ending! I want a finished product! Not everything affects me this way. I can have six books and two knitting projects on the go and not even think about them. But then there are the other times.

I think that what I’m here to confess is that I’ve been doing this recently more than I should: up until three in the morning, bleary-eyed and unsure of what reality really is. Reading over 500 pages in less than 24 hours, like someone who lined up all night to get the new Harry Potter book on the first day. Forgetting to move until my legs fall asleep and I’m forced to adjust. Eating whatever is in the fridge with little consideration for taste because grocery shopping means too much time away. These things aside, it isn’t the reading or the knitting that is the problem. It is the hangover, the recovery period. That is what I am currently mired in. When I resurface back in reality, it is difficult to get my bearings, uncramp my fingers, uncross my eyes. Also, I know that I don’t really want to be back in reality quite yet, so I go looking for another hit. Mercifully, I am relatively broke right now, so I’m not knitting as much as I would. Books, however, are another matter; I have a solid supply stored in my not-bookcase, in my office, on my dresser, and I also have many wonderful, trusting friends, ready to thrust their favourites between my cold little fingers. It hurts so good, but I’m really trying to finish a class and also a degree.

These are the very best and very worst kinds of friends. The other kind of friends I like are the kind with aspirin.


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I had that a couple of times recently. I bought Ishiguro’s Pale View of the Hills in Seattle-Town and read it in one night (though it’s only 200 pages, not 500). Then I was itching for *another good page-turner* (since the books I had packed were either academic or not that gripping) and I bought the first novel of Keith Gessen, All the Sad Young Literary Men, which was hilarious but also more profound than I expected, and finished that yesterday in a two-hour stint at SC.

So is THIS why you’re never around anymore?

Comment by Annick

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