Hester and me

I am a book slut.

I can be perfectly content with the book I am reading, when a shiny new book catches my eye and I’m off hooking up with it in no time.  I am trying to finish Game of Thrones.  I’m up to the last book.  I can see the finish line where I’ll be caught up with everyone else waiting for Book 6 to come out and wishing George R. R. Martin would get over his celebrityness and stop appearing at every convention or agreeing to talk at every panel and GO WRITE ALREADY!  (OK, celebrityness is not a word.  I’m styling so stop nagging.)

Then that tall dark handsome Nathaniel Hawthorne winked at me from my dresser.  (yeah, yeah, yeah, old books are great to read.  The hell with that.  I got it for free for my Kindle.)   It’s not as if it’s even shiny and new.  I’ve read The Scarlet Letter often, plus Puritan Boston sounds like hell on earth to me.  But that A is all fancy and red and I couldn’t resist.

I don’t even stay faithful during the course of one day.  Hell, I don’t even stay faithful during my lunch break.  I’ll start with one and zip over to the other before my sandwich is gone.

It was perfectly manageable until I went for the ménage à trois.  (I am NOT tagging that word.)  I’ve been wondering if I read the clues about Jon Snow’s mother properly so then I decided to reread Game of Thrones.  That’s a 4,500 page commitment of books I have read in the last two months.  That’s insane.  At the time I decided to do it, however, it seemed perfectly logical.

The only hard part is getting all caught up in the castle intrigue and the epic battles and the dragons whooshing around and expecting George Martin to kill off Hester Prynne.

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