Sunday Salon - Book addiction and withdrawal

Last week Sophie Kinsella released a new book, called Wedding Night. I had pre-ordered it on Amazon and so it was automatically delivered to my Kindle on the release date.

I have written before about Sophie Kinsella, and the fact that she has also been published in the past under the name Madeleine Wickham (her real name). But I don't think I was sufficiently effusive in my praise of her comedic chick-lit writing, or open enough about my enthusiasm for her books.

A new Kinsella book for me is a bit like a shipment of drugs for an addict. That may sound extreme, but here is what happened when the book arrived on my Kindle: I opened it up that evening, started reading, and more or less did not stop reading until I finished the book a day later (except when I was forced to, like to pay attention to my son or to cook dinner for Bibliohubby). I stayed up late in the night and read in the dark, I read while the TV was on, I read in between the chopping stages of my cooking, I read while I lay next to Iggy encouraging him to sleep (I am an excellent multi-tasker).

And the strange thing is, I'm not sure it even made me happy. I mean, I enjoyed the book immensely, as I do with all of hers. It made me laugh out loud in places, and chuckle in others, and I was fully absorbed from beginning to end. But the thing with this kind of obsessive reading is that it feels obsessive. It feels like an addiction. Which means that sometimes, whilst reading, I knew that I should be doing other things, or that overall I might enjoy my day more if I spent a bit of time outside - but I was tethered to this book. It was such a strong compulsion it felt like my freedom was being compromised!

And further, when things were not going well for the characters, it affected me emotionally. When I was interrupted in my reading, it genuinely upset me.

I think Bibliohubby finds it quite odd - and rather disconcerting - that my grumpy mood can be caused by something as ephemeral as a novel! But it can. And it was.

And then, I finished the book. This came with a weird kind of release - ahh, I will now have time to do other things! I can re-focus my eyes and get up from the couch and walk from one room to the next without dragging my Kindle along with me. Of course, alongside the relief was a sense of real loss - the characters and the life I had actually been living, alongside my own life, for the past 24 hours, were gone. What would occupy my imagination now? All of a sudden I was released back into my reality of waiting, waiting, waiting for this baby to come.

So tell me - am I an oddity? Is it very strange that I occasionally get so involved in a book that the borders between fiction and my reality start to blur? Am I the only one who suffers from withdrawal when a particularly absorbing book is finished? Tell me I'm not crazy!