Crunch time is here. I feel like I’m clinging on with my fingertips as the sweat pours out and the handlebar threatens to fling me off at the next turn in the road. Or something like that. Anyway, if any of you are waiting for replies to e-mails, that’s why. I’ll try to get back to all of you soon. Yay for midterms. ~sigh~ (And lots of other things.)
Anyway, as a sanity check I’ve been making sure to spend at least a few minutes each day on leisure reading. I’m halfway through Bridge to Terabithia and a few chapters into Fire and Hemlock. And I, um, checked out another two Diana Wynne Jones books today as well. It’s like food storage. (So far I only own the Chrestomanci quartet, but I’ll start collecting the rest before long.)
Going along with the food analogy, actually, I’ve been realizing lately how stories are almost tangible to me. Reading fiction is, for me, like eating — whether mangoes or roast turkey or saltines or what have you. I’ve got a story stomach, and it’s hungry! Going long periods without eating (reading) isn’t healthy. You’ve got to eat every day. Libraries are like candy stores. Or grocery stores, rather, because not all books are candy.
Anyway, my real stomach is splitting with hunger right now and I fear I’m babbling nonsense. I’ve got two midterms to study for (no respite! no peace!), so I’d better take off with wild abandon. A’voir, O readers.

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