I almost started this out as if everyone felt the same way. I suppose some people don’t and that’s actually a little sad. Nevertheless, I sat in the bathtub one night, candles lighting up the bathroom providing just enough light to read by but certainly not enough to tell who might be coming through my bedroom door and I thought to myself, sometimes the shit wandering through my head is just a tad too cool to keep to myself.

And so, with the theme to “Highlander” (by Queen, of course, Rowan’s current favorite) blaring in my ears and the scenes from Tim Burton’s “Sleepy Hollow” wandering through my brain I settled into a a mound of bubbles about ear level deep with a brand, spanking, new, freshly unwrapped copy of “Duma Key” in my hands.

Mr .King and I have long been friends, you see. From elementary school when I first encountered “Salem’s Lot” to “The Black House” shortly after Rowan was born when I decided that we needed to part ways for a bit. There was something about the anxiety growing within my chest and the graphic descriptions of children being murdered that were not conducive to the desperate peace I was seeking between my own ears.

At one point, largely pregnant with Deirdre, I contemplated finding a sitter for Julien to creep into a lecture hall at a local university somewhere in mid-Colorado to listen to him speak. It would have been my first steps on a college campus since leaving community college in the armpit of California because the heart of an eighteen year old thought it knew better.

I didn’t… I’ve always regretted it and life goes on.

Still, sitting in the bathtub, iPod blaring in my ears and a heavy novel perched atop my thighs, it occurred to me that it had been years since I had tip-toed through the tulips with Mr. King. I quickly found myself immersed in the tale of a millionaire horribly maimed by an accident and actually felt my heart flutter in my chest.

Somewhere within the bubbles in the tub and the bubbles in the freshly opened bottle of beer, even if only for a few brief moments, I found myself again, lost in a story only yearning for what might come on the next page.

It felt amazing.

I remembered the long forgotten girl who could lose hours upon hours in her bedroom alone reading intently, page to page, cover to cover and never once caring what went on beyond the bedroom door.

That girl had long ago been buried in the rubble of diapers, first teeth, first loose teeth, report cards, teachers meetings, and doctor’s appointments. Yet, somehow in the midst of a meager opening to a story, only twenty pages in, she had clawed her way out and sat rejoicing in the sweetness of fresh air that only a cliched description on an electronic page can describe.

And, my friends, it was glorious, orgasmic, and beautiful.

I hope she hangs around for a while. God knows I need the inspiration.