I am an escape artist!

Not literally, of course. The idea of being locked up, physically, and trying to break out to save my life is not actually appealing to me. I am an escape artist, because I love to read fiction – I love the escape into a world that is not my own. Reading fiction, I’ve been on archaeological expeditions in the Arabian deserts, stuck in labyrinths of caves under the polar ice caps, riding alongside kings and queens on progress through the Bristish countryside – all of the places I’ve always wanted to go (okay, so maybe I wouldn’t actually want to go underneath the polar ice caps – that kind of freaks me out)! Even places I have never desired to go to, if I’ve read a well-written book about them, I feel like I’ve been there (no need to worry about spending the cash to travel to outer Mongolia – I’ve read about it. I can save my pennies for my future trip to the British Isles!!) But I can picture those places in my head, when I’m immersed in a good book. I feel like I am there, enjoying the fun, running from the maniac or mutant, crying through the tough times, right along with the characters that I can also picture and feel like I am a part of their lives. It’s a corny thought, but it’s mine.
And I don’t just read a book – I devour a book. I read EVERY word (sometimes more than once – just in case I misunderstood the meaning or didn’t catch all of the nuances). I even try to get the correct pronunciation in my head (even foreign words that I’ve never heard before – yep, I’m that big of a dork!).
I feel like I’m neglecting non-fiction, though. I try, honestly I do, to read non-fiction. I have even been reading an autobiography – unfortunately, I’ve been working on it since Christmas. I keep putting it down, because I’m bored, and picking up a fiction book in the meantime. Is there something wrong with me that I would rather read about a completely made-up story, than something that really happened?? Oh, well – guess I’ll just have to be screwed up!


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