I settle back in our old, lumpy, but incredibly comfortable couch. The house is quiet and I close my eyes for a minute, drinking in the silence. Impatience wins and I open them again, letting my gaze fall on the book in my hand. It’s by an author I’ve never read before and I can’t wait to crack it open.
I flip through those pesky blank first few pages, anxious to get to the start of the first chapter. I finally reach the first page of the novel and dive into the story and lose myself in the words. Three pages into it I finally draw breath. The words flow, weaving a gripping tale. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end, goosebumps cover my arms. It’s more than a good story, it’s a well written one, and that’s what’s causing my excitement.
It’s so hard these days to find a novel that’s exquisitely well written. It’s such a great surprise when it happens. Like turning a corner on a busy street and finding the perfect bakery, or a breathtaking garden. You find a great paragraph and you reread it over and over again, just to savor the neat construction, the well chosen words. The goosebumps are a sure sign that you’ve found one of those books that you’ll turn to again and again.
I sigh and settle back into the couch, making myself comfortable for a long read. I rub my arms and let myself get drawn back into the story. Within minutes I’m lost in another world.