Weird Harold
Opinionated Old Fart
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2000
- Posts
- 23,768
I've been offline for four days because of a bout of "Literary insomnia" -- AKA a "book too good to put down."
When I surfaced from my reading binge and realized it had ben four full days since I'd been online, I began to wonder if I'm wierd or something.
How many others get so involved in their reading that it becomes the overriding purpose of their lives.
"Just a couple more pages before I give in and go to sleep."
"I'll finish this chapter before I fix something to eat."
"It's too late to go to sleep before work, so I'll just finish this volume and be able to start the next right after work."
"Two hours is enough sleep. I might as well read some more."
These and other things are the excuses I give myself to justify putting the real world on hold until I've finished whatever has caught my attention -- this time it was the complete works of David Eddings, but Anne McCaffrey, David Weber, Robert Jordan, Elizabeth Anne Scarborough, and many other authors have grasped my soul and dragged me into their literary creations.
Over the years, I've noticed that, for me, reading is a true addiction -- In my more rational moments I can see how the excuses and rationalizations sound uncannily like those I used when I was a Lush and alcohol ruled my life.
Is this an addiction I should be worried about? Should I sek professional help or just find another good series to read until I've satisfied my need for escape?
When I surfaced from my reading binge and realized it had ben four full days since I'd been online, I began to wonder if I'm wierd or something.
How many others get so involved in their reading that it becomes the overriding purpose of their lives.
"Just a couple more pages before I give in and go to sleep."
"I'll finish this chapter before I fix something to eat."
"It's too late to go to sleep before work, so I'll just finish this volume and be able to start the next right after work."
"Two hours is enough sleep. I might as well read some more."
These and other things are the excuses I give myself to justify putting the real world on hold until I've finished whatever has caught my attention -- this time it was the complete works of David Eddings, but Anne McCaffrey, David Weber, Robert Jordan, Elizabeth Anne Scarborough, and many other authors have grasped my soul and dragged me into their literary creations.
Over the years, I've noticed that, for me, reading is a true addiction -- In my more rational moments I can see how the excuses and rationalizations sound uncannily like those I used when I was a Lush and alcohol ruled my life.
Is this an addiction I should be worried about? Should I sek professional help or just find another good series to read until I've satisfied my need for escape?