Twinkies and Toilet Paper (or Closing the Cover on the Best Kind of Book)

I was born of two readers. My dad was always reading. My mom, on the other hand, says she gave up reading when I was born. According to her, she never would have gotten anything done and there would have been no one to parent me, because once she started a book she would sit right there and read until she finished it. Being a person who usually reads multiple books, each with varying degrees of interest and different purposes, I couldn't grasp her reasoning. I can put a book down and pick it up later, the story like a good friend popping in for coffee in the early afternoon and then again for drinks after dinner.

Joshilyn's books are different. If she were to put them out weekly, I'd be like Mom and never get a thing accomplished outside of page turning and hysterical laughter. With most books, I mosey through them like I'm shopping for pleasure, nothing specific in mind. When I crack the cover of a Jackson novel, I am on an old game show with a cart and a timer and I have to get as much merchandise inside that cart and make it back to the front of the store before the ugly sounding buzzer goes off and signals game over. I find myself in bed, bug-eyed, sleep-deprived, desperate to know the next detail.

I finished A Grown-Up Kind of Pretty today. I slid her carefully onto the shelf by my other two signed hardbacks and lovingly nestled my little Between, Georgia fox girl by the spine. She'll be happy there, but I am already sighing. What do you read after that? I feel as I did when the final episode of the final season of Gilmore Girls wound to a close on my screen and I had no more witty Lorelei and Rory banter to anchor my days. Only, this is worse. No one but Joshilyn could write a line like, "It was just my best friend Roger, fixing my tit for me," and make you sigh at the sweetness. I mean, the word "tit" rarely elicits feelings of nostalgia and peacefulness, but if you read the scene, that line will bring a little smile to your lips. 

Who knows when another novel will send me barreling through store aisles shoving Twinkies and toilet paper into the cart, tripping over three-inch heels, rushing to beat the clock and devour the story. Those are rare treats, those books, but every time I choose a novel to read, a part of me wonders, "Will this be it? The next book I can't put down?"

I'll let you know when the next one comes.

HT