A lot of people take a book to bed, confident a few pages of text will help them nod off. That’s not me. As a reviewer, I take my reading far too seriously. Yet, settling down after dinner for two to three hours immersed in a book, I often wonder how long it will take for the words to blur, or for that jolt into wakefulness that signals the end of a micro-sleep. Why oh why?
My eyelids don’t droop every evening, but is that a function of the state of me or of the book? I don’t have to be bored for my mind to disengage, but it could be that the exceptional ones do have the power to keep me awake. I haven’t yet monitored this, but should that be the standard for determining my favourite reads?
You can find my other posts on reading here. If I’ve left you nostalgic for bedtime stories, a scene in my debut novel, Sugar and Snails, about a woman who has kept her past identity secret for thirty years, might be the cure. You can read about it in one of my guest posts Tell me a story about when you were a little girl.
What an eventful day! Matty could sleep standing up.
Yet she lies on her back. Then on her side. Her thoughts racing, jumping, spinning: packing one away, another springs up.
When the guests retire, she must contend not only with her own mental disarray but the groans that are the external manifestation of theirs. Could she smother them one by one with a pillow? Simpler to step outside.
Shivering in the cobbled courtyard, she cinches her dressing gown. Finally soothed by the diamond-studded sky, she makes to go indoors. But, when she tries the handle, the door won’t budge.