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.