03 Jul 08 Thursday
| Current mood:  sad Category: Blogging Books should not make you cry. They should help you escape into a world that's much better, or at the very least, much more interesting than your real life. But the book I'm reading right now, Twentysomething, by Iain Hollingshead, has accomplished just that. I am crying as I read about his father's funeral, and I have to tell myself, it's a bloody fiction book, for God's sake! It's not real! And I'm not even drunk; I'm completely sober! So there's no real, rational reason for me to be crying, and yet here I am. Not openly sobbing, mind you, but definitely moist in the eyes. Anyway, reading this book has made me want to start writing, or at least make a stab at writing some sort of novel. Not the Great American Novel, because everyone and their brother dreams of writing that one day, but some sort of mix of what I've experienced thus far in my short existence on this lovely planet, and characters I have made up (I have a very vivid imagination, except for when it comes to a certain activity which shall remain nameless).
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