Something odd happened to me yesterday. I finished my work at around 5:30pm-ish and was all set to write a new blog post when I decided to throw caution to the wind and read a book instead. I’ve been reading a new book since last Saturday and it’s so enjoyable that I’ve found it hard to be motivated to do anything but read it. I’ve had a lot of late nights this week because of this book.
It’s called Such a Pretty Fat by Jennifer Lancaster and it’s amazing. She’s one of my favorite authors and this is her third memoir. I randomly picked up her first book at an airport on my way home from California and fell in love with it. She’s hilarious, bitingly sarcastic, and forthcoming enough to make reading her memoirs poignant and sincere.
She’s been one of my role models ever since I read her book because she is now a hugely successful novelist but she started off as a blogger. I’m not saying I want to follow in her footsteps exactly but I have definitely taken some notes from her.
Anyway, the odd thing that happened to me was that when I finished reading Such a Pretty Fat I was hugely disappointed…because it was over.
That’s never happened to me before. I normally feel a sense of accomplishment and closure when I turn the last page of a book but this time I was just sad that it was over. I hollered down to Wes that I was so sad to get to the end and he recommended that I send her an email to alert her to this fact.
I may have been fortified by a cosmo martini at this point so I went upstairs and did just that. In the bright, harsh light of morning I feel I may have been a bit brash. I just emailed one of my writing role models while tipsy and I’m not entirely clear on what I wrote to her.
Here’s to hoping it wasn’t too flowery and fan-girl gushy, shall we?