escribir

I read. I read everything, a box of cereal or a license plate is of no less worth than my newest pursuit. I am in awe of the modern novel. This is new, they are new. The hot flush of a well formulated sentence. I am hooked, my eyes are giving way and I am getting less sleep, but I just can't seem to stop until the last page. Books and lovers are cousins.

My teeth hurt I am so poor. I visit the public library, with a stack of books up to my chin and one tucked beneath my elbow I approach the front desk. I live in fear of the librarian. She looks over my books and, rarely, comments on them. It's those few words that destroy my esteem. I deflate as she looks over the assortment of thick books of photos, glances over the graphic novel, and alights on something by Christopher Pike. Yep, Christopher Pike. Cocking an eyebrow she looks at me, I smile through my teeth. Stammering something about rereading everything I have ever read, I grab my ten pounds of entertainment and flee. That's a half truth.

I am trying to decide what makes a book memorable. What, after ten years, will make me pick up a book and read it again. The answer is usually sex. I know: more women read; women are verbal; typically, best-selling books are written by men. Bam, add steamy sex and the formulaic teen novel has progressed to chic-lit. These books are trash and can be read in less than a day.

The next time the Librarian looks my at my stack, I will be proud. Noting the progression of my carnal devotion to the written word, she will sneak one of her favorites to the middle of my pile. I will give her my observations on the characterization of the american protagonist. She will take off her glasses, look me in the eye and say: I was thinking exactly the same thing".