I got in bed at ten thirty last night, thinking I’d read for a quick thirty minutes before conking out in blissful sleep. So I picked up Jackson Pearce’s Sweetly. And I was a goner. There was no way I was putting that book down until I knew the end.
From the very beginning of the book, I was holding my breath, waiting, because I knew at any second something horrible was going to leap out of the woods. It was like watching a horror movie, when you’re braced for the monster – except Sweetly had a good plot and no stupid people splitting up after their friend mysteriously disappears.
I finished reading and started breathing again at two in the morning, then grabbed my other Jackson Pearce book – As You Wish – and started reading. Fortunately, this was more humorous fare, and if I scared any of my family by my weird snorting laughter between two and three this morning, I apologize.
That’s what it’s all about.
Not snorting laughter.
Staying up until three o’ clock (when I finished As You Wish) in the morning reading a book because you just can’t put it down. The characters’ plight is so real and all-encompassing that you know you wouldn’t be able to sleep even if you did put the book down.
I’m a writer and a reader, so I can admire the awesomeness of it from both sides. As a reader, I can appreciate the story and the characters because they make for a fabulous read. As a writer, I can appreciate the effort from many different people that I know went into creating the story.
Books are the most amazing thing ever (besides oxygen and stuff).
If only one person in the world stays up past midnight to read one of my books, I will consider my writing life a success.