When the book 50 Shades of Grey came out, I suddenly became a literary snob. Me - who enjoys a good Dan Brown novel, or most of the books sold at the HMV paying counter - I, became a highbrow book reader. I had to suppress my revolted face when people mentioned they were reading it. One time an acquaintance in passing, asked if I had read it. I responded with a cringe and sneered that I would never sink to that level, only for him to tell me he was just wondering my thoughts because his girlfriend was reading it. I lost a lot of would-be friends over this book. I had half a thought to write good ol' E. L. myself, telling her that her piece of trash book ruined perfectly good dinner dates and staff meetings because I could not contain my rage toward her "record-breaking book."
Then I read it.
Not just it, but all three.
In a row. Within five days.
People who know me well, know I am in a particularly low point in my life and I have found that this cycle tends to repeat itself on me. I think my life does this to simply remind me to be humble and try new things.
The book came to me in a whisper of a thought from months ago when visiting my friend Dub in Toronto. She nearly convinced me then to read it then, when she said that women she looked up to or thought were respectable at work, had told her to read it because they enjoyed it so much. Dub reads good books and even SHE was going to read it.
I had been trying to read Cloud Atlas during this particularly hard time in my life, when I realised I was retaining nothing. It was like trying to read Le Petit Prince in grade 11 French class, when the only phrase in French I could recognise at this point was "puis-je aller aux toilet." After trying to read maybe 30 pages of the Cloud Atlas, and only absorbing the first sentence, I knew something was off. I found myself staring at this supposedly intelligent piece of literature with only the muppets song, Manamana, replaying in my mind. This is a big warning sign for me. 30 pages in two weeks is bad. It's Karen-Thomas-reading-New-York bad.
It was then that I knew I needed to feed my brain complete and utter trash. I managed to look up the latest Clive Cussler book and even one of my old Nancy Drews about a hunt for a missing key to the room in a cabin on summer holidays, cleverly titled, Nancy Drew and the Hunt for a Missing Key to the Room in the Cabin on Summer Holidays. It was then that I saw it calling to me in the store one day on the way to work. The shining silver necktie against a dark black background, beckoning to me like the One Ring calling to Frodo, urging him to slip it onto his finger. I was sold. I also realised I'm glad I wasn't a hobbit in middle earth responsible for carrying the ring to its destruction, as I would put that ring on every time. Every. Single. Time.
I then bought the first book on my kindle to hide my secret shame away from the world.
Needless to say it captivated me and although I am ashamed to admit it, I cannot wait for her to write another book. I don't even mind that I turned bright red when I read it on the tube, or had to put the book down whenever someone under the age of 18 or over the age of 50 sat next to me. I could live with my crutch.
My only problem now is that I have finished the books but am not out of my low-time life phase. I have started Snow Falling On Cedars, but I am worried this might also take some brain power. If anyone has any suggestions as to what I might be able to rip through, please let me know. I am open to anything that will captivate and allow me to ignore real life as much as possible. Even if you have a great cereal box blurb, send it my way, I will chew through anything right now.
Anything.
