The Joy of a Good Book

I love to read. I don't do it nearly as often as I would like, because I have so many hobbies, in addition to the stuff that I SHOULD do (cleaning, etc). But I keep up with several "favorite authors", and when I see one of them has a new book out, I immediately put in a request for it at my local library.

The other day I received an e-mail notice that three books I had requested were ready for pickup at the library. As soon as I got out of work I went and picked them up. I decided which book to start with, and sat down to read.

And then I started to feel guilty.

Guilt is a strange thing. It creeps up on you when you least expect or want it. It makes sense when I'm doing something like putting a grocery store item I don't want in a spot other than where I got it. It makes sense when I tell a little fib, like "Yes, mom, I remembered to stop at your house and check things while you were in Florida."

But feeling guilty about reading? I spent twenty-eight years teaching young kids, encouraging, cajoling, BEGGING them to read. Why would reading bring on feelings of "I shouldn't be doing this"?

It's simple. I'm a mom. In the last twenty-six years I have been conditioned to spend every waking moment taking care of everyone and everything else. Reading is something I do WHILE I'm doing something else - eating, waiting at the doctor's office, or visiting the restroom. Television watching is in the same category. When I watch TV I often have a craft project handy (knitting, cross stitching, or scrapbooking) or I'll be doing something domestic, like folding laundry, ironing, or paying bills.

So sitting down to read, and do nothing else, tends to fall in the realm of "wasting time". My Conscience tells me I should be straightening out my piles of fabric, or dusting off the knickknacks in the living room. Sometimes I tell my Conscience, "Just fifteen minutes, and then I'll get to work." And the fifteen minutes stretches to three hours. Oops.

I think that's why these are my favorite authors. They have the ability to create worlds in which I can lose myself, forgetting - momentarily - the world in which I live. For those hours, I'm wrapped in the lives and the conflicts of someone else. My own problems and concerns fade away. Until I close the book and realize I've lost an entire afternoon or evening.

But doggone it, the kids are fine and don't need me to take care of them. My husband can take care of himself. So taking a few hours a day for myself should NOT make me feel guilty!

Now if only I can convince my Conscience to leave me alone so I can read.

Mental Cruisin'

Last week I attended my writers’ group meeting. I enjoy the monthly meetings. We meet at a great restaurant, and I get to schmooze with a lot of intelligent people who love to write. We have a business meeting, and then we have a speaker. This month one of our more prolific members spoke about Character Arcs – the emotional journey a character takes, caused by internal and external conflicts. It was a very informative talk and we all started thinking about the emotional journeys our characters are taking. I guess it makes sense that the more strenuous the journey, the more compelling the story.

After the meeting, did a few chores, and sat down to read. I just got the latest Stephanie Plum adventure from the library (yes, I’m too cheap to buy it!) And then I thought about some comments the speaker made. When a character’s story covers several books, the character’s arc in each individual book tends to be smaller. Especially evident is the lack of character growth in this particular series. Though she always solves the murder mystery, she never resolves her issues with either Morelli or Ranger. It’s hard to believe either one of them still shows any interest in her.

So, does that make me a literary simpleton? Why am I so attracted to a character who remains stuck in the same dead-end job where she gets abused both physically and verbally, where she struggles to earn enough to pay her bills, and where her mode of transportation either gets smashed, stolen, or blown up on a regular basis? What’s so compelling about a female who apparently has what it takes to attract the attention not one, not two, but occasionally three (if you count the mysterious and sporadic appearances of Diesel) sexy men, yet chooses to remain unattached?

The truth is, I love reading about Stephanie and her misadventures. A part of me wants to shake her and say, “You idiot! Why are you running around working for your cousin Vinnie? Why are you and your hamster Rex still holed up in that little apartment, eating your mom’s leftovers, when a hunk like Morelli is pining after you? Marry the guy! Live happily ever after!” But then, of course, Stephanie would be too boring to read about in future books. Part of Stephanie’s charm is her tendency to land in disastrous situations. And the men are attractive because they can be counted on to help her get out of them.

I still enjoy the deeper, more involved stories with the soaring character arcs and dramatic plots. I have to try and write them if I ever want to get a story published. But every now and then, I don’t want to go on an emotional journey – I just want a nice, easy ride, and Stephanie and her friends are perfect for that.

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I was hoping to finish a scarf and hat set this week, but my head is too big, so I have to take the hat apart and make it bigger! Oh, well, maybe next time.