I’m a bear today. It’s not even 8:00 a.m. and I can already feel the snarling begin. The culprit? Jodi Picoult’s House Rules. A friend recommended it, which—incidentally—is the #1 way readers are introduced to new authors according to Goodreads, and this friend was right on the money. I stayed up way too late devouring half the novel, and am tired and irritable today, although whether that’s from sleep deprivation or not being able to finish the book is anyone’s guess.
Despite the foul mood, I can’t help loving the cause. This is why I’m a lit addict. I’m always hoping to crack a cover on a book that will pull me into a new world as deftly and completely as a Universal Studios ride. (e.g. The Forbidden Journey. Anyone with me here?) Naturally, there are plenty of other reasons to read; the pursuit of knowledge, culture, and alternate perspectives are all pretty high on the list, but there’s a difference between reason and addiction. I just finished Macbeth before I started House Rules and, while I’m sure I’m a better person for having read it, the foreign and melodic language was a perfect lullaby. I consistently fell asleep after two or three pages. It did not, in short, satisfy my addiction. Jodi Picoult delivers the fix and if the price is a few hours of sleep, this addict is willing to pay up time and time again.