Catching Idle Butterflies

Who'd a thunk it.

From the moment I took my writing and improving upon it seriously, I noticed doing one of my favorite hobbies had soured. It had in many ways turned into work.

Reading. I used to love to read, living vicariously in other people's lives, feeding my imagination, and to escape from my own life once in a while.

This is no longer true. I find myself instead of being engrossed in a story, taking the thing apart, in grammar, sentence structure, and even the story line. Some of my favorite authors have become less so, because their writing abilities no longer hold up to my newfound stringent criteria.

Kind of sad, really, and frustrating.

But once in a while I find a book that makes reading a worthwhile exercise.

I originally had no intention of buying "Marley and Me" by John Grogan. I don't normally buy memoirs, especially those about a pet. It's not that I don't think they might be interesting, they don't pique mine.

It popped up as I searched for a different book on Amazon. The photo of this yellow lab looking lovingly into the camera with his head cocked to the side is what interested me. Curious and with nothing better to do, I clicked on it to read more. Amazon even gave me the option to read the first chapter.

Only halfway through reading the chapter I was hooked. I had to have this book. Not only did this "world's worst dog" intrique me, but I fell in love with how the author writes.

I have yet to be disappointed. One third done and I still believe it's one of the best written as far as description, laugh-out-loud humor, and a few heart-wrenching and tearful moments as some other books I've read of late.

So if you'll excuse me, I have a book to finish.