This weekend, I spent a few hours with a good book, a few cups of tea, and a warm blanket. This kind of ultimate relaxation is rare for me; I work the equivalent of two jobs and I’m usually too ADHD to sit still and read a book straight through for any length of time.
But something about the end of spring break prompted me to get in one more book and to make the most of it. So naturally, I read a really relaxing, not at all emotionally taxing book about nothing heavy or deep at all. Because I’m known for reading really chill reads. Or, you know, I read a very heavy, amazingly written book that almost made me cry, but not quite.
I’m sure I’ve spoken about this before, but I love heavy books. I want a book to make me cry. I want my world to be shattered, broken, swept up, glued back together in a different way, and to change completely because I’ve read a book. There’s something beautiful about a book that inspires this deep, painful, visceral reaction. I want a book to make me cry. I’m a literary masochist, what can I say?Read more