When I read, I read for fun. That is the extent of it. I eat fiction up like it is a free box of donuts.
I Love stories that reel me in with their ability to feel immediately real. Like the characters in a book might be my new neighbours. I am invested. I care, hate, fall in love, dream, obsess. I hate when a book is nearly done. Sometimes I will put it aside around the last chapter or two. When I feel like it is coming to a close, I will abandon it for a few days, a little while. Because I can’t bare the thought of it being done, and those characters and stories not being part of my life anymore. Maybe I need to get out more? Or maybe I am the reason people write! For people like me, so need to exist inside themselves.
Give me a door way to wonderland, where the landscape is a bit fantastical and magic abounds, but where the characters feel real enough that I watch for them on the street.