I’ve surprised myself by jumpstarting my 2015 reading resolutions. I finished up my fourth book yesterday and was shocked to find it’s still January. (Then I really flabbergasted myself by going to see the film adaptation of Cheryl Strayed’s Wild. Who am I?)
Anyway, closing my book yesterday and putting it back on the shelf got me thinking about that age-old feeling you get once you’ve read the last sentence. Sometimes you read the acknowledgements, you check to see if there are any tidbits at the back of the book, then… abyss.
It’s like being unceremoniously chucked out into the streets when you were, just a moment before, wrapped up in a warm and special, safe place. I feel the need to mourn the end of a book before picking up the next. I’m in the final stages of absorbing it all, wallowing in it, seeing what it feels like to wear it around for a bit.
It’s also damn near impossible to decide what to read next. Often, I’m in the mood for what I’ve just read, so it’s hard to change gears.
What do you do when the book hangover blues hit? Maybe I’ll right a twangy, blue-steel song about it. Ok, not really.
(An oldie, but goodie: “21 Signs You’re Suffering From A Book Hangover”)