I’ve been reading for 4 hours. 23 minutes. 15 seconds.
I am life. I am death. I am love. I am grief. I am broken, then rebuilt. I am changed forever.
I am a sorry excuse for a writer. I am boring. I am weak. I found a story that inspired me. A standard to live up to.
My heart pounds. My breath races, then hitches in my chest. It’s caught on a dream on a hope on a fear. I am large and then small again in a moment.
1 laptop, 2 hands, 3 4 5 novels form 1 hope.
1 desire, 2 readers, 3 4 5 attempts to find voice.
I am lost in worlds that don’t exist. I ignore worlds that do. I love people who will never love me back. I am a reader.
I read this novel. It read my heart. It wrote my soul. I came undone.
(Please note: This review is a very poor attempt at imitating Mafi’s brilliant style, and the commentary on “I am a writer” comes almost directly from Robert De Niro’s 2014 Oscar intro for best screenplay)