Suffering from Good Book Syndrome

Girls,

Right now, I am suffering. My heart aches.

I have the worst feeling. The one that means nothing can take me back to that feeling ... that cozy, warm sensation of reading a really good book -- the one I turn to in time of happiness, sadness, tiredness. The one that keeps me up later at night, the one I turn to in the middle of the day instead of writing, instead of cleaning.

I have been suffering from what I call "Good Book Syndrome" for more than a week. It might be closer to two weeks. This is when I search and search for the next Perfect Book. I skim pages and pages of First Pages. I go scowering about the house, asking, "Have you seen (SUCH AND SUCH BOOK)." Shouting, "Well, it has to be here some where." I dig through shelves upon shelves -- moving about from first floor, to second floor, to, finally, the third floor. I check the Waiting-to-be-read piles around my bedside table. Nothing clicks. Nothing sticks.

For a small book club I'm in, we read "Water for Elephants," by Sara Gruen. It was so good that when I was done, I immediately handed it over to The Da! because I knew he would read it in, like a day, and then I'd have someone to talk about it with since book club was a mere two weeks away. I was right ... he was done in no time. The last time I felt this way about a book was "Bel Canto," by Anne Patchett. But he didn't read it. This is the first time we've read a book and then discussed it. More on that in another post.

Since then, since I closed that Great Book with a smile, I haven't been able to latch onto anything else. And, I have tried. Very hard.

I started first with "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time."
Since I do most of my reading before bed, this novel -- as refreshing as it seems -- was too much like a textbook from grade school that I should have read. In fact, it's a great refresher book. I couldn't tolerate all that information being junked up in my head just before trying to get a good night's rest.

So, I tried "The Bean Trees," by Barbara Kingsolver. It's the book's 20th anniversary. I read an article by Kingsolver in GH, so I felt it was time to read this great one of hers. It has been on my shelf for years. I know Turtle. I know Barbara. I'm a big fan. Still, it wasn't working. I had to put it down.

That's when I started "The Orchid Thief," by Susan Orlean.

Still, I can't help feeling a great loss, a little empty inside. Crawling into bed to read, just isn't the same when I'm not in love with tonight' book. It's a lot like, well, you know. I can't write THAT here.

But, unlike the others, I think I will stick with this title ... at least for a while. It is the next best thing. I think. At least it is until my next freelance check arrives and I have a little money to spend at the book store.