When I was young, I devoured books. The elementary school librarians, delighted, struggled to keep my backpack full enough before the weekend. As a teenager, still ravenous, I would take in anything printed that crossed my path. Readers Digest, Koontz and Clancy and Crichton, “age appropriate” Christian fiction that I cringe to remember now. My mother bought me a 500 page novel in anticipation of a trans-pacific flight when I was thirteen, and was furious when she discovered I’d read nearly the whole thing overnight before we left. My intake has slowed from the firehose of a child discovering story, my tastes eventually refined, the volume decreased to carefully selected volumes recommended by trusted friends, authors with track records, occasional golden discoveries from the bookshelves of others. But the last three years have been barren, the rigor of working through graduate school burning out the willingness to read anything extra, even treasured long-form journalism falling by the wayside.
The reignition has been slow. An article here, the start of a book there, a favorite chapter flipped through before bed. Fits and starts, but nothing substantial was taking hold. Until these last few weeks, when finally the hunger has become a fire in my belly. The distinctive, engrossing pleasure of a well crafted story, woven together with precision and subtlety after a too-long absence of narrative in my world has been unexpected in its intensity, and is so very, very welcome.
entelechyproject 