The Joy of Reading...On Steroids

Books are meant to be savored, enjoyed like an expensive glass of wine. After a long day, nothing beats sinking into bed with a thick novel to carry you across the world or through time itself. It’s a comforting ritual, sipping a chapter or two before slipping off into slumber. I, on the other hand, am incapable of doing anything but gulp down book after book not unlike a famished runner downing gallons of water after a marathon.

In the past 72 hours, I have read 1,747 pages worth of literature: John Grisham’s “The Broker,” J.K. Rowling’s “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,” and Dan Brown’s “Angels and Demons.” I don’t know why I do it, why I can’t just put the book down after a couple of chapters and stretch the enjoyment of reading beyond more than just a paltry six hours. In obvious cases, like Harry Potter, the book is just too good to put down. But the Grisham book wasn’t anything special, yet I still found myself plowing through, page after page, until there was nowhere left to turn. My brother sometimes accuses me of simply skimming the book, racing through it just to say that I finished in x number of hours. But that's just not true. I read each and every word on the page and I follow the story properly, just a bit more quickly than most.

It's like my curiosity is on overdrive. Usually, you read a couple chapters, rest the book on the nightstand and drift off to sleep, dreaming about what the characters will do next, what twist and turn of the plot will they end up in tomorrow? But for me, the suspense is just too much, even if the book sucks. I've tried many times to put the book down and just go to bed, but unless I'm utterly bone-dead tired, 15 minutes later I'll turn the light back on, reluctantly return to my page and reenter the story.

I remember when I was reading "Pride and Prejudice" (which by the way is my all time favorite book (I know, what a cliche, but hey it's every girl's dream)) in high school, how agonizing it was to have to stop reading each day after the assigned chapter or two was completed. I wanted so badly just to continue on, but I was worried that, since we had questions to answer for each chunk of chapters, finishing the book would mess up my ability to complete them. However, since none of the question asked us to predict what was going to happen later in the book, this rationale really made no sense whatsoever. I still remember the sense of elation I felt when I casually mentioned this to Ms. MacNemar and she told me it was okay to finish the book. That afternoon, I sat in a beanbag chair in the middle of my room and didn't budge until Elizabeth Bennet had once and for all ironed out her tribulations with Mr. Darcy. (I still don't understand, to this day, why I thought I needed a teacher's approval to finish reading the book and I know this story marks me as pretty much the dorkiest person ever, but hey, this is the internet. You don't know who I really am, right.)