there lived a girl that had books scattered across her room.
she frivolously searched for a story that would distract her from the elaborate novel god created with her name.
no matter how many books she read, how many stories she put herself in, or how many times she tried to escape, her hunger would not be satisfied.
she was consistently romanced by these novels.
they knew how to entice her.
entrance her.
connect to her.
the books had a predetermined destination.
she knew it would end.
she know it would end happy.
in these books:
the heroine always knew what to say and when to say it.
the heroine always knew how to handle a situation.
the heroine always got to the other side.
when things seem desperate and when they seem defeated, there would still be another 100 pages left.
so the girl knew that things wouldn't be close to finished.
she knew that things would get better.
books were tangible to her.
but she didn't have a book to represent her life.
she never knew how many pages were left.
she never knew if there would be an upside.
she never knew how to say the right things.
she didn't know how to be strong like the heroines she read of.
but she can try.
she needs to try.
she will try.
yours until the pigs fly,
alessondra marie
I am currently reading the book you speak of. The author seems to have inserted blood-curling turns of fate express how he always strengthens and fosters the heroine's beautiful and authentic character. It's a story much longer and more beautiful than any of the books you've read. I'd tell you to buy it at Borders but they are bankrupt.
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