Much to my shock and dismay, it’s still winter here in the Midwest. Except for a slight reprieve last week, cold weather has continued to pummel my area into the ground with its icy, Super-Bowl-ring-from-a-team-I-can’t-think-about laden fist. If you’re in Florida, this probably means you need a sweater at night (Pfft — yes, that’s really me giving you a raspberry), and if you live in Minnesota, well, likely you’ve already died of hypothermia.
When the temperature goes down, there’s nothing I enjoy more than
dancing around my kitchen belting out Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” reading a good book. So yesterday I cashed in a gift card, and treated myself to a few potentially fabulous reads:
LOVING FRANK by Nancy Horan: For my book club which ahem meets tomorrow night. (Procrastination is an art form, my friends.)
Though I’m always reading something, I consider this past year to have been more of a writing year than a reading one. Which is good. And bad.
There was a time in my life when I would go through a book a day, and it was somewhat normal for me to stay up all night just to race to “The End.” But, as more responsibilities (read children) came to burrow in my home, those all-nighters spent reading started to fizzle out.
I came close the other weekend while zooming through THE LIGHTNING THIEF and the rest of that series. And I was awake to almost see the sun rise when reading THE HELP. Before that, it’s hard to remember.
Though my sleep, as of late, hasn’t been the greatest, I’m willing to give it up for a book deserving of swollen eyes and exhaustion headaches, while ignoring famine (my children’s) and flood (their tears) to devour the words.
I’m hopeful that one of my new books will hold such powers of insomnia, but I’m curious: What was the last book that kept you up all night?
Find me on Twitter @amandahoving