When my body hurts, there is nothing I want more than to be wrapped in something warm and soft, cuddled into a cocoon where I can try to forget about the pain. Reading (the right book) is a fabulous escape. Writing is the next best thing. Needless to say, today has been tough.

Please, could someone please wrap me in a nice soft book? My body needs a new reality today; I’ve been combing the shelves for something cashmere bound and down filled, a balmy 76 degree place to nestle and nest.

Adventure, romance, travel, happy endings all, filling the pages with the appreciative murmur of satisfied characters, plot and theme essentially irrelevant so long as I get amber gold imagery conjured from mellifluous language, deep rooted words smelling of sandalwood and exotic fruits.

I’d like to lie back on this raft of silken words, a river ride of clouds and sun, and watch the galaxy turn in slow motion while shooting stars land in a whisper like so much dandelion fluff or milk and honey rain pitter patting soft and low, percussive kisses, feather light.

Give me a thousand pages where I can alight barefoot and quietly wander, methodically picking my way through the dense forests of metaphors and allusions, seeking but not lost, senses heavy with wonder, my mind electric.

In return, I will strip off this weighty dramedy and put it back on the shelf or lose it under so many cookbooks and catalogues. It’s pages carry the acrid smell of pain and jutting plot points, sitting in jarring juxtaposition to an underlying maudlin theme. I’ve never been one to cast aside a book, but this one needs some serious editing.