I read a ton of books when I was young. I would take my little red wagon to the library and load it up with as many books as I could pull home, 20, 30, 40 or more. As the librarian made her way through my towering stack of books, I always had a moment of panic that she might cut me off like a bartender, withhold my selections and tell me "Go home, you've had enough!" I think that the limit was 50 books, but vaguely recall the librarian telling that the limit was whatever I could read in two weeks. I stopped myself at 50. Taking any more would look downright greedy.

When I came home, I would sort through the books and stack them in "to be read" order. I still do this when I have a stash of new books and enjoy it just as much. It's like planning a meal. First, start off with an appetizer (humor, graphic novel, pulp), followed by the soup course (ghost story, fairy tale, fantasy), fish course (memoir, food, travel), entree (literary novel, biography, nonfiction) and dessert (romance, chick lit, guilty pleasures) etc., striving for a balanced reading experience the way a chef strives to create the perfect complement of flavors and textures, sweets and savories.

Reading, however, has always been a private experience. It's just me and the world inside the book (I know it's a good one if I stop seeing the text on the page and see the characters instead). When it was over, I'd pick up the next book and plow through that, unless I paused for a day or two to enjoy a particularly tasty story whose flavor still lingered. Today, I might pass a book along to a friend with a general recommendation that it was awesome, or more her style than mine or vice versa, but try it anyway. The discussion ends there. So I was quite surprised to discover the enormous community of online book bloggers and reviewers when Ice Song was published and began making its way around the blogosphere.

Shelfari, Goodreads, Living Social and the numerous book blogs loving maintained by avid readers -- who knew? Readers' devotion to their favorite genres and authors astounds me. The depth and care typical of their analysis demonstrates a whole new way of absorbing and digesting stories--reading as a communal exercise. The open forum for reviews and the comments they generate transform reading from a solitary activity to a shared one--a DIY instant book club.

Whether or not I'll join the discussion is yet undecided. Call me old school--a book is a personal thing. Maybe I'm selfish in not wanting to share my experience with other, break it down into components and analyze its parts. I fear the magic would be lost.But maybe I'll be brave and try it, and discover my enjoyment enhanced by a shared appreciation, rather than diminished by too-close scrutiny.

(Man, that was like drawing blood from a stone. Now I can chuck my literary voice and tell you that my head is foggy 'cause those little germ machines that live with me brought suitcases full of rhinovirus home from school. That the rain is beating down and I'm distracted by cloud patterns and long for bed and laptop and warm choco chippers. That I'm considering buying a pizza with next week's gas money so I don't have to cook tonight -- and will worry about how to get to work later, like next week when I don't have any gas money. That I really need a hot toddy with honey and lemon and that today is definitely a five cups of tea day.)

I have an addiction. I’m a story junkie.

I can get my fix from gossip sites, Facebook, blogs, video clips, monologues, comics, morning DJs, friends and family, comedy monologues, news items, NPR, magazines, podcasts, TV, movies, and, of course, books. I have an insatiable appetite. A day without as many stories as possible crammed into it is a wasted day. A story is not always beginning, middle and end. Sometimes it’s just the middle, or the ending, and the rest is up to my imagination.

A story doesn’t have to have the traditional elements, archetypes or forms. It just has to satisfy, whether it’s popcorn fare or a seven-courser, it’s all food for thought. But because I devour so many stories, and am so relentless in the pursuit of my next fix, maybe I’m not so choosy. I just enjoy them. I like to absorb them, digest them, take what I need and spit out the rest, just like sunflower seed hulls. There’s always something of value. An idea, an image, a character or experience, a good laugh or cry. Then it’s on to the next one.

Like a shark, always swimming, I cannot rest. I read everything at lightning speed, street signs, license plates, cereal boxes, advertisements, looking for some aspect of a tale. Actually, I wish I didn’t have this constant compulsion to read every single string of letters or words I see. It would be more restful, but there it is.

Just feeding my habit the best way I can. Like a whale, straining plankton through its baleen, I sieve stories from the media world around us, and take nourishment from the tiniest snippets of information. Think about how many stories you hear in a day, where you hear them, how much of the story you need for it to be meaningful and how that story affects your outlook and emotions. Consider how empty, how absolutely null and void, our human existence would be without the powerful language of Story, shaping and cataloging our lives.  Think about the best and worst stories you’ve ever heard–the ones that stay with you, year after year. Can we have stories without words, images or sounds? If you can find a story even in silence, then you too are probably a story junkie.

Salut!