Edgy Mama

I haven’t written about books in a while because, well, I haven’t had much time to read lately. I read daily, of course: Asheville’s newspaper, the NYT website, plus multitudinous blogs, and miscellaneous magazine articles, but my fiction time, my time with others’ created universes, has been sadly limited recently.

Before I had kids, if I went 24 hours without spending at least one of those hours immersed in a good novel, I’d feel seriously in need. I was an addict and fiction was my fix. Now, I think wistfully on those days. If I manage a chapter before falling into a deadish heap on my bed at night, I’m lucky.

Nor have I managed to keep up the booklog on my website. If you look there, it seems that I haven’t read a book since August. Which is not the case. Too many websites, too little time.

So far, 2006 has not been a banner reading year, from both time and amazing fiction perspectives. I have read several novels, but none stand out, and I don’t like to denigrate others’ work. As far as I’m concerned, if you’ve written a novel, you’ve accomplished something remarkable, regardless of whether it’s amazing or not.

But several days ago, I happened upon an amazing novel. When I’m reading a really great book, it feels a lot like falling in love. I’m obsessed. I can’t wait to get back to the book. I think about it at inappropriate moments, like when I’m chopping vegetables or driving carpool. Often, I dream about the book. I can get excited just thinking about it and when, o when, I’m going to be able to escape, just me and the book, to a quiet, private corner. Unfortunately, like love, this state is rare.

But I’m experiencing this altered state of endorphin-enhanced being this week. I’m reading Elliot Perlman’s Seven Types of Ambiguity. This novel has grabbed me, sucked me in, made me fall in love.

Thank you, Mr. Perlman, for making Seven hefty, because I’m going to be sad to finish it. It will be like ending a love affair. And even though I know I can go back, it’s never quite as exciting the second time around.

I’m typically loathe to write about novels before I’ve finished reading them, because they can peter out and disappoint in the last pages (or in the last hundred). But even if that happens with Seven, even if I lose interest or become disillusioned before the affair has run its course, I will have had a memorable ride.

I’m off to read–just me and my book, in my soft, warm bed.