Life gets so busy that it is hard to actually stop and take time to read and really enjoy a novel.  I read everyday— homework that students submit, the newspaper, what seems to be an endless supply of emails, text messages, notes to myself, blogs I admire, and even the occasional bill to be paid— all kinds of textual documents are at my fingertips almost every moment of the day.  But to actually sit, curl up in a chair, and enjoy words the way a novelist meant them to be… now that is more complicated.

When I was younger, I always envied the girls in school who sat and read novels each day during lunch.  No, I wasn’t in any hurry to abandon my friends and be like the isolated nomad who read mystery books with cats on the cover, but I secretly wished that I could abandon any interest in who so-and-so had a crush on and learn more about what Howard Roark might do next.

Ultimately, my social side gets the better of me and I still tend to go out, try a new restaurant, or call a friend before I sit down to devour a new book.  However, with the latest snow storm, I felt like the day stopped once the evening commute began.  By 6pm, drivers seemed to be overwhelmed; unable to move and in a daze about how to proceed while flurries continued to tickle the windshields of their cars.  My journey home felt like a visit to a magical ice world, and I rushed inside once I found a parking spot in the neighborhood.  Then, I actually got to stop everything, allow that ice-world time warp to engulf me, and enjoy my book.