Of all the fun I have planned for the weekend, the thing I can't get out of my peripheral thoughts is the stack of books. Yay!
Perhaps I'm a bookworm. No, I take that back. I'm most definitely a bookworm. And while I love the slightly rough feel of a fresh page, the dry scent of a new book, and even that subtle crack when the spine creases for the first time to reveal it's inked pages, the thing that makes these dear is the story itself.
After a very long work week, and a very short nap on the futon, I have already dipped into a new story.
I'm not sure if I'll make it through this before starting another because that discovery, that first glimpse of a new and foreign world without bugs (in books there are rarely bugs...isn't that fabulous?) is so enticing. However, once entered, its hard to draw oneself from the journey. Alas.
But you know what? It's the weekend! I can spend it as I please. And this weekend, I'll spend it with a small-town cop facing a suspicious animal mutilation, in the bayou with an architect, ambling under the Texas moon, and in a community turned upside down when the walls begin to talk...
I am so glad for stories and time to read them! And the authors who hatch them, pen them, scrub them down, and share them! And this weekend, for Heitzmann, Y'Barbo, Wingate, and Gutteridge...and Wingate again if the mail brings book six tomorrow.