A Girl Named Michael: Blank as the Pages of My Diary

Its no surprise to anyone that I like books...lots and lots of books. I constantly have a book or 4 I am in the middle of reading....its one of the things that makes me, me. With all the books I read comes this need to share my opinion of the books. I Want to share my experiences, was it good? Did it suck? Did I cry? Was I scared? Were the characters worth the time I spent reading? You get my point.

But recently something strange has happened I can't seem to write reviews on the books. I created a whole blog just for reviews and I am blank..nothing there. I can write a synopsis of the book but I cant seem to express if I liked the book.

I have even read some amazing books, books that have effected me profoundly. I read the book and when talk about the book I am like...you see the dot dot dot is my problem, nothing comes. I am blank; I know how I feel and how the book affected me but when I go to express that felling all I can come up with is dot dot dot.

I currently have a love hate relationship with the dot dot dot. I fell like that Seinfeld episode where Elaine yada yada yada'd over sex (seriously one of my favorite Seinfeld moments). Only unlike her I am yada yada yadaing over the best part, what made the book so good.

I can write reviews for books that were just OK but not the really good books but who wants to write reviews for books that were okay? Not me, I want to tell you about the books that rocked my world, that made me ponder my life and my views. There was even one that caused my to have an extensional crisis...seriously it did.