Sometimes I read books that make my mind not so secretly churn, for days, on every hitch of their plot and gnaw on the gristle of each character and their flaws. Most often this response is elicited by those authors I yearn to be like--to emulate and form some kind of version that's half them, half me. I'm not a copycat, but when ghost's of phrases pile up in my brain so that I can barely put words on the page myself, I want to be.
Days after reading I still find myself with wet eyes for no reason. Stubborn, I push back the odd emotion for unreal people and move onto the next book. But it's no good. My thoughts are always analyzing, wondering, and sometimes wishing for a better outcome for all involved in the last book reading massacre.
It's these precious, never letting go of my heels, moments that I think I take for granted. That remind me why I love to read and make me wonder why I don't make more time. When my inspiration is at it's peak level but I don't feel like I can formulate a sentence past my emotional pain let alone construct a plot or multiple sentences.
I hope someday to be that faraway thought in someone's mind while they go about their daily lives for days and all they can think about when it comes to my work is--why?
Not the why that says the story didn't fir together. Not the why that means that readers weren't satisfied with the ending. But the all-encompassing why that makes you take a quick look around, huddle back into your shell, and hope no one noticed that for one skip of a second, you questioned your world with more clarity than most humans are want to do because of people that only exist on paper.
But maybe it's just me.
Very prettily written and thoughtful post. You aren't alone Elise. There are some books that won't let you go for days after reading them.
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