I average reading nearly a dozen books a month. My world sometimes seems like it revolves around words. I read. Write. Study the craft.
Yet it’s only a couple of times a year that a book sucks me in and holds me captive. It’s like a shell tangled in seaweed. The sticky threads of the story wrap their arms around me and compel me to continue reading.
Currently I’m thankful that 1) It’s still nearly two weeks before I actually have post a review of the book I just finished and 2) That I have a host of housework that needs done so I can focus on that this morning and let my brain recover a bit.
This book. Wow.
The writing was beautiful. The storyline so true. So incredible horrible. And so very real. The crazy thing was it’s a subject I’ve felt tugging at my heart for several years, but I had no clue that was what the book was dealing with when I began reading.
And for once, I wholeheartedly agree with the ending of a book, if ending is even a correct term. (That’s a huge deal considering I very, very rarely ever like how stories end.) There was seriously no other way to end the book.
Did I like the book? No. Was it enjoyable? No. Did I agree with everything (anything?) the characters did? No. But was it powerful? Yes. Was it a subject that needs talked about? Yes. Did it make me want to shove it into hands of people I’ve met in real life? Yes. Will I recommend it? Well… unfortunately probably not.
And this, my friends, is what it feels like to be overwhelmed (in a very good way) by a book.