Often, when I sit down to read, I struggle to get to a point where I’m concentrating on the book and nothing else — not writing or housework, not how many pages are left in a chapter or my omnipresent, overblown guilt over what a bad daughter/sister/friend/coworker/wife/general human being I am.
I can hit that zone from time to time. What helps in part is the right book, or at least writing style: The Hunger Games was paced just right that I was practically able to swallow the book whole, and I got so invested in the A Game of Thrones characters that I still haven’t lost the bags under my eyes. But it’s also to do with my state of mind. Is everything lined up for me? Is something eating me up inside? Is there too much distracting commotion that I just can’t filter out?
Of course, it’s not always roses when I get to that point. I’ll read late at night, then realize I have to be awake in 4 or 5 hours; or it’s past the time when I should be eating, and I haven’t even started dinner yet.
But being in that place with a book is amazing, when there’s no other sensation but the hardcover on your lap or the mass market cupped in your hands to interrupt the words flowing over you, into you.
What books have absorbed you so completely that you didn’t notice anything else?