I would talk about why I enjoy the books, but I think that ship has sort of sailed with other, better commentators. What strikes me is how I'm sort of compelled to read them. This isn't the first time I've become really focused in what I'm reading; at various times, I have reacted similarly to the works of Virginia Woolf, William Shakespeare, Shirley Jackson, William Blake, Jane Austen and Philip K. Dick. I suspect that this is a by-product of A.D.D. -- I use my enthusiasm as a way to maintain my concentration long enough to read a sizable chunk of books. It eventually peters out, but not before I have been able to make substantial inroads in an author's ouvre. Only it's not even specifically related to reading; I'm like this about a lot of things. It's been remarked on more than one occasion, for example, that I will eat a meal one item at a time -- that is, I will finish off my mashed potatoes all at once and then I will finish off my vegetables all at once, et cetera. That's as good a metaphor as any for how I do things, I suspect. I put my mind to finishing something, and won't stop until it's either done, or until I lose interest. Not much of a multi-tasker. This can be useful for short term projects, but less so for, say, getting a Master's degree. Luckily, my entusiasms tend to be cyclical: I'm eventually reminded why I was so passionate about something, and return to it with the same vigor as before. It's occasionally frustrating, but often it's something more positive: a lot of people don't seem to manage that initial sort of enthusiasm more than once.
It occurs to me that I may be bipolar. If so, it's extremely mild, since I'm not really terribly manic, nor that depressed (at least not since I bitched myself out of my teenaged years).
My dad is the same way, only even more so. He's A.D.D., too. (We were both diagnosed way before it was hip to put 3 year olds on Ritalin, as adults [or quasi-adults], by the way -- we were the trendsetters.) It can be frustrating for the rest of us when we are confronted with his single-minded determination to be done with a project, even if that project should reasonably be of little priority. He needs things done, and he needs them now. I'm not quite that bad, I don't think. At least not with other people.
All of which is a roundabout way of saying: I think Terry Pratchett is a wonderful author. I don't regret reading 700+ pages of his books this weekend, instead of doing what I should have been doing. But I really, really need to channel some of my enthusiasm into my research proposal, since I have to go and confer with Dr. Ankem this Thursday.
Aw, maybe tomorrow...
(I'm also a notorious procrastinator.)
Song: Sandie Shaw, "(There's) Always Something There to Remind Me".
*There are those for whom the completion of three novels in three days is but a walk in a well-lit, attractively-landscaped park, and they will look upon me; and Lo! they will gaze upon the goofy visage of a simpering, be-spectacled troglodyte for whom three books is an accomplishment. To which I shrug, and say: "Whatever."** I actually am reasonably well-read, and certainly above average, as far as American reading habits go.
**I apologize for my elaborate defensiveness. It's because my legs hurt.
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