Some books you’ll cary around only for a quick escape. They may be deep and engaging, heart-wrenching and thought-provoking but (be honest), they are like a casual date with an interesting someone whenever you’re able to fit them into your schedule. They fill in the spaces between home and work, or help you digest a rushed lunch. You may even fall in love a little bit and think back fondly when someone else mentions them, years later, but your socks were not rocked.

Then there are the others.
The ones you felt mildly curious about and didn’t expect to have such an intense gravitational force, pulling you ever deeper into the rabbit hole. Suddenly, you find yourself opening them not only on your free time or to light up a boring waiting room. Suddenly, you’re making excuses to dive back into its pages, like a lover who calls in sick to play under the sheets some more, if only for a few stolen hours. You still love your friends and family but you wouldn’t mind putting them on pause until you’ve finished that volume. Because, in that moment, the world you inhabit is elsewhere and the people you’re eager to check up on may not be quite aware of your existence, but hold a large chunk of your heart all the same.

Those are the books that fill you with a lust to do something – the books that always make me feel torn between devouring them and writing my own.

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