I am thirty-nine years old. That means I’ve been reading avidly for nearly thirty-five years (I learned a bit early–my mom insisted we read all the time to deal with my dyslexia. It worked. Also, now I read all the time).
Still, I’d fallen into somewhat of a reading rut. I’d scour backlists of my faves, desperate to be entertained. Mostly, contemporary romance.
Then, something o-m-g-amazing happened. I found out that Anne Rice combined my two favorite characters in one book. Finally, a Lestat I cared about again. At last, a potentially satisfying end to one of my most-loved stories that got lost in subplots.
Rowan and Lestat. I reread, caught up, and finally got some closure.
Then, my boss brought me the Game of Thrones season 1 DVDs. (If you haven’t watched yet, drop everything and do it now. Seriously.) So much to love, so many tears. I bought the entire (book) series-so-far. Five books. Long, engrossing fantasy books. Thousands of pages. (4228 pages, to be exact, in the US hardcover editions).
I loved every minute. George R. R. Martin pretty much owns me now. Which brings me to my most tragic ship: (Spoiler – Highlight to see) Daeny and Drogo.
Six weeks later, I was left with one question… Well lots of story questions, but one practical one. What can I read next?
You can check out my Goodreads page for an idea of all the stories I found, but let me sum up just a few highlights.
Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn; Serena (P.S.) by Ron Rash; the entire-to-date fairy tale retellings by Eloisa James; Doctor Sleep and 11/22/63 by Stephen King; Johnny Carson by his long-time attorney and friend, Henry Bushkin; all of the Brothers Sinister books (series ongoing at this time) by the amazingly talented Courtney Milan.
2013 became the year of the reader for me. I discovered the reader that lives inside me. She doesn’t prefer one genre; she wants all the books. She doesn’t need pure romance to bring out the shipper; love is everywhere. And sometimes dangerous and deadly. But that’s good, too.
Most importantly, my inner reader wants to write. She wants to create characters that are flawed and real. She has her own stories to tell.
So, while I’ll never again box my reader in, 2014 is going to be the year of the writer. We’ll just call all this gorging on good stories like an addict in a crack den research.
Woot! Woot! That’s my new saying: 2014 The Year of the Writer.
There will be a banner or a button or something. I understand the reading binge and for me that year was back in 2012. I binged like a mad woman. Salute to you serving the binge without an overdose.
Now, write more words for me to read. :)