Good writing excites me. A bit too much, I imagine. As a rule, I warn non-reading company before I open a book that I just know will be delicious. Else I get funny looks at every giggle, every content sigh and every chuckle at the clever turns of phrase I come across. But most importantly, they are informed about the threat of bodily harm that looms large on their heads, and are given the option of taking their not-interested-in-books-good-for-nothing-butt to another room - all because a good book may sometimes incite extreme physical reactions in me. Like Portuguese tarts can.
I am literally married to a book right now, one that has me so involved that every three pages or so, I involuntarily lunge at the person sitting next to me and with a crazy glint in my eyes, shriek out - You have to read this, ohmygod, this is amazing stuff! - or variations of the same. I normally get a I'm-scared-of-you-leave-me-alone kind of reaction, which I happily ignore, and proceed to read out a passage or two from the book to my very bored, and by now, frustrated listener.
Which is why I'm writing this. None of you need to be warned about my extreme reactions, but I'll tell you this - if there's one book that you're going to read this month (because reading less than one a month is out of the question, unless you go to BU and have two jobs), then let it be a lovely book of short stories by Miranda July called No one belongs here more than you. It's been really long since a book inspired a blog post in me (you know, being the lazy bum that I am), but if I've made it to three paragraphs, you can be sure this is something great.
And if none of this gets to you, well then, I guess I'm going to have to disown you now, won't I?
P.S. I wonder what the literary equivalent of food orgasm is.
P.P.S. Doesn't the lady look scarily, insanely creative?
