Some days I am a writer but most of the days, I am a reader.
Swooning over the characters like they were real, grieving with their sorrow’s, laughing at their antiques.
They come alive as I turn pages, much like the diary of Tom Morvolo Riddle, but these are not evil, rather loving, I seek to lie between the pages of these books, curl up and fall asleep, one more time before the book ends, and the last words, bleed me dry.
As long as I can remember as a reader this has been my habit.
I am the kind of reader, who sometimes, mid-novel, yearns to know about the author, before reading their writing, read their lives, or at least part of it.
See their pictures and imagine, how they were struggling somewhere on this very page, deciding to let two characters fall in love, or separate them from their one true love, how they cried on the death of a character they so lovingly build, or how the laugh devilishly as they imagine their pain swooping all our the readers face, that pain.
I cannot help but imagine someone somewhere so far off, in some other country, someone in some different part of this universe, writing about things that I relate to as if it were my diary entry.
It’s actually magic, it’s the truth of books I tell you.
I stop somewhere thinking about thousands of people working over each page the publishers, the editors, so much work, alas creating purity.
Even if it’s a devilish book.
I read from page to page, in shoes of other, at times closing my eyes, imagining the face of characters, which I never can, all I can imagine is their form, their skin colour, their clumsiness or the way they carry themselves, the clothes they put on.
I love to discover somethings mid-book.
Like how I imagined a girl protagonist had long gorgeous hair. But somewhere, there is a line tucked away “her hair falling just below her ear, whirling across her face, making small thunderstorm of their own” oh the joy of completely challenging one’s imagination.
I sometimes make notes, put sticky notes, add words to my own dictionary, but most times I too lazy or too involved in the story to really get up and do it.
Once I finish reading, if the end is sad, I throw the book on my bed, stuff my face in a pillow and cry, or smile at my own tears, but, then I compose myself to write about it, before I forget how the book made me feel, if the books are so good, I cannot help it, I re-read it.
That has happened only with three books so far.
Harry Potter series.
The perks of being a wallflower.
All the readers in this world are different, they have their own way of reading some read 2, 3, 4, 10 books simultaneously, some read one book and only then start another.
And then some are,
They do as they like, read what gives the most feels that day.
Mid-book abandons it thinking it sucks, pick it up 6 months later and falls in love with it.
Us the *haywire readers*, not so organized, but I feel reading is for us, it should be the way we like it.
It should be what we want it to be.
If it would be therapy or entertainment, it’s on us.
It’s the beauty of reading that leads to, a ‘life much better spent’ than just a ‘life spent’.
Tell me how to do you?