One Reader's Ramblings

I think that some of the most brilliant writing I’ve ever read wasn’t really written at all… it was what was left unsaid.   It is those 4 nearly blank pages entitled… October … November … December … January .   Each time I get to those pages, even though I know they are coming, I cry.   They tear out my heart because I know that kind of pain.   The kind of pain that rips out pieces of your life and you know that no matter what, you will never be the same.   You lose not only time but parts of you.   It takes you from a “were” state, to an “are” state and those two never cross paths.   No matter how much you long to go back to the kind of person who doesn’t truly know what pain is, you can’t.   And somehow, those 4 blank pages scream out of that precise kind of pain.    

I just got through reading The Twilight Series for the tenth time.   ( Midnight Sun was only for the 5 th or so time.   I didn’t discover it until I was already a true Twihard though now it’s one of my favorites.  Again... please, Ms. Meyer, finish it!)   Obviously, I love the books.   I mean, who reads a series (especially one that long) 10x unless they really love it.   So don’t take my criticism wrong.   (If you’ve read my previous posts you should know that I will vehemently champion these books to anyone.)