That’s where I like to escape, often.
Pick up a real book-this thing with paper and a cover and bindings and a frontispiece and I just dive right in.
Turn off all the background noise and I just waltz right into that exposition and sit myself down and watch. Listen.
Become a part of the narrator’s carefully crafted tale.
Cheer for my protagonist and wish the worst for my antagonist.
I hear it all, and feel it all,
eat and breathe those words, those scenes, that rising action.
I’m right there for the ******
and falling action and the eventual denouement.
And then I let go.
I set that book gently down on my bedside table and I let myself come back here. Regretfully, always, but at least I know that another world
is just a page or two away.
I’ve always been a bookworm. My books have been my education and my salvation often. Just read my first Louis L’amour novel and I’m awestruck. What a wonderful escape.