Craving the fiction

I've gotten a craving for seriously crappy fiction. After a beautiful day yesterday, almost spring even, we got hit with another grey, snowy, slushy downpour. I'm not even going to complain about the weather. It's too redundant. So after dragging myself out into it and finishing off a few errands, I ended up at the downtown public library tracking down the fiction aisles. After a detour into the non-fiction where I instinctively started to fill my arms with intriguing titles (details omitted) I reminded myself that I rarely finish any of them, and moved on. I wandered into the mystery section first. Not knowing any authors, just going in blind, I began picking out ones that would make people ask me why the fuck I was reading it. I hardly know fiction these days except for Tom Robbins, and the last mystery books I read being Nancy Drew. I grabbed a selection such as "The Unlucky Ones" and "Death of the Office Witch" (is it appropriate to list the authors, not that you might know any of them, but...)

It's weird, but I've connected this craving to an attachment I had for constant reading as a child. It totally is a form of escape, and yeah I was kind of awkward. So, when I'm bored, and don't feel like forcing myself to draw, I've decided I should read. I remember reading the most random fiction, sci-fi, and kiddie horror like R. L. Stine and Goosebumps, intermixed with my dedication to the Baby-sitters Club and Sweet Valley High series. I can't wait to sit down, get into some dorky mystery story, and have a new reason to stay up all night.

"It's for real!" The Babysitters Club Fan Club!