It seems I (mistakenly) hid it from myself for far too long. I started reading on the last day of my trip and from the minute I started I didn't want to stop. I had to race through in fits and starts because there were all of these family obligations and cookies to be eaten and I felt the way I feel on those bad work days when I just want to crawl under my desk and cry very dramatically, Whyyyy? Whyyy will no one just let me read?
I tell you all this for a very specific reason. Because the final wah-wah-stop-when-I-don't-want-to-stop came when I boarded the plane home.
I don't read on the plane. Most bibliophiles, they love the plane. They read multiple books on the plane and are all gleeful with their neck pillows and overhead lights. Not me. On a plane, I become sulky, motion-sick, dramamine addicted, try-to-stay-zen so I don't barf.
Words. Printed words. While soaring. They make me sick.
I am here to tell you. I read this book on a plane.
As in, the plane was taking off, and I would rather throw up than stop reading this book.
As in, I was experiencing vertigo, and my hands were so clammy I think I stained the cover, and I did not want to stop reading this book.
I know you come to this blog looking for deep thoughts and analysis (humor me) and I'll say there's an extraordinary sense of place in this book, sparse but crisply purposeful sentences, a world of characters and plot lines that move together in both measured and syncopated cajun dance, and a heroine you love for being practical and hard-nosed and still idealistic enough to yearn. I hungered for these characters in many ways. I wanted to be with them and read their stories when I couldn't. And I wanted for them what I, always, want for myself, for everyone. To dream bigger and bolder than we should, to go farther than anyone ever expected.
But, quite honestly, the greatest endorsement I can give this book? I read it on a plane.
