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.