Hello friends, happy Sunday! I hope you’re having a wonderful time, that school, work or holidays are treating you well. It’s funny, when I started drafting this blog post, I was thinking about a totally different idea, and then, it came and gave birth to this endless rambling. I hope you’re not sick of it – and of me, yet, ahah. I started book blogging about a year and a half ago. There was a life before, and a life, after. FOR REAL. But, let’s be honest, I’ve always been a bookworm, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. But…what does that REALLY mean?
Does it mean we like books, read those occasionally, or does this mean we DEVOUR book for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and once as a midnight snack as well? I have to admit, before I started book blogging, I thought of myself as a lover of books, obviously – I was the one reading in class when I was done with everything, and I’ve always been qualified as the girl with a book in her bag, in my early teens. But since I really got into book blogging, all the wonderful recommendations, the books EVERYWHERE, well they have been taking much, much more of my time and THOUGHTS, really. Because now, I’m not just the bookworm with a book in her bag. I’m the bookworm her mom screams at (with a smile, HELLO MOM it’s because you read A LOT that I do, too) when there’s yet ANOTHER bookish package coming at home. I’m the bookworm that just CAN’T shut her brains and CAN’T stop bribing her sister to buy new books. I mean, just ONE. It’s nothing really, right? I’m the bookworm that went from reading 30 books a year to … well, right now I’ve read more than 30 books and just half of the year went by. I’m the bookworm with more tears, more screams, more laughs on my face because there are just SO MANY MORE BOOKS in my life.
It’s also true that, while I’ve learned how much I could care and get into and talk endlessly about books, I have learned that being a bookworm is HARD. It comes with a lot of struggles normal people wouldn’t imagine, and you can just see about a billion of them if you ever went through the #bookwormproblems on twitter. I mean, the endless pile of books you WANT, and have the NEED to go through, while there only are so many hours in the day. The endless pining over fictional characters, the day-dreaming about stories, the glassy-eye and do-not-talk-to-me face while you’re reading on your lunch break at work, just while you’re reading, period. The pressure you can feel about writing a review, sharing your thoughts to the online community and, to the world, because that sometimes comes with stupid people not being able to respect each other’s’ opinions. The urge to go through another book just to end your Goodreads challenge, to end this story to start another one, to feel better because some others can get through 100 books in six months and you’re still only on your 21st book because well, life happened.
Being a bookworm is hard, guys. Being a bookworm AND discovering the book blogging world is the END of everything. Or most likely, of your social life, being consumed by books, book recommendations and friends from ALL around the world there to talk about books while you can’t sleep at 2 in the morning. Well, I mean, if this is the end, then I’m perfectly okay living like that for the rest of my life.