Does Anyone Have a Cure for a Reading Hangover?

I always do this. It's instinctual with me. I anticipate holding my latest conquest in my hands. I intend to imbibe slowly, savoring every moment. I look forward to days of enjoyment. And then the book comes out and reality sets in. Who in the world am I trying to kid? The second I open the cover I read and read and read. Before I know it, I have finished the accursed tome less than thirty-six hours later and I'm left to ponder what on earth just happened; usually with a raging headache.

I wish I could resist the pull of a good story. I wish I could relish every word. But when it comes right down to it, I am a six-year-old on Christmas morning. Pacing means nothing. The pile of presents awaits and I will not know peace until I have ripped open every one in ninety seconds or less. In the case of my bibliophilic tendencies, I have to know what comes next. Now. Even if it is three in the morning and I can barely see. The desire to read overcomes every other need. I even get cranky when it comes time to eat. Who on earth needs food when an epic battle is about to commence?!?!

This visceral reaction is fairly palatable when it directs itself toward great writing. Captain Corelli's Mandolin, The Poisonwood Bible, anything by Jane Austen – I can almost understand my drive to reach the final page; to know how the story’s arch completes itself. Even the Harry Potter series was a worthy object for my lust for words. But Breaking Dawn? The story about a teenage girl and her vampire boyfriend that EVERYONE is reading? You must be kidding. I read The DaVinci Code hiding in my parents bedroom during a trip from Colorado because I could not stomach reading the ubiquitous novel-of-the-day in a public venue. I could not bear being one of those readers – the ones who proudly engage in the latest pop-lit sensation like it is the literary equivalent of the Crocs fad. Yet there I was. First thing Saturday morning anxiously purchasing my copy of the vampire-werewolf-human love triangle. (I would not, could not bring myself to attend a midnight release party. That madness I reserve entirely for the likes of the boy who lived!)

What makes the entire scenario worse is the fact that I detest romance novels. (Jane Austen forever and always will stand as the one exception to this rule, although I’m not sure she counts. I would argue that she incorporates exceptional depth to her novels with her satire and social commentary so as to transcend the label!) I had only come across one other vampire novel that I enjoyed before last summer. (I threw away an Anne Rice novel for crying out loud! When I was only half-way through it! And I WORSHIP books!) How on earth did I get sucked into this trend? And why oh why did I enjoy it so much? Seriously. I thoroughly loved the ride! And I am only mildly abashed to admit it!

And so here I sit, having traversed insanity. I made it through the tunnel of fanatical reading that commandeered my weekend and found life on the other side. Now that my unyielding desire to read is in remission (for now!), my focus on the outside world is returning to normal; however sluggish that return might be. And I will spend time with the three-dimensional people once more. Unless someone knows of another great read worthy of a relapse into my compulsive ways, that is. Then again, perhaps I should look into the existence of Obsessive Readers Anonymous instead.