I live in Atlanta.

I’m making this point only because it’s important you know Atlanta is where I call home, but it is most decidedly not where I am from. Why is that fact so important? Because people in Atlanta have southern accents. Oh, not all of them. Many are not from here, like me. And I most definitely do not have a southern accent. Both by nature of my background, but also by choice. I can be a bit of a snob when it comes to proper diction, and to my very discerning Yankee ears, a southern accent is flawed diction. Is this a fair assessment? Admittedly, I haven’t stopped to weigh that point. It doesn’t really matter…not to me. I don’t have a southern accent, and that fact is very unlikely to change.

Does this mean I make fun of all people who do have southern accents? Au contraire…I embrace people with all sorts of accents. As long as their grammar is spot on.

Bad grammar is a pet peeve of mine.

I can almost hear you asking, why are you telling us this? And I imagine you’re wondering, what the hell is she talking about?

Don’t worry, I’m getting to that…

You see, my problem is this, I have been spending a lot of time (maybe too much time) in Dallas over the past 24 hours. Dallas of the early 1960s. And in the Dallas of that era, there are a whole slew of southern accents.  My poor, snobby Yankee brain has been fighting them off like a summer cold.

Don’t feel bad…I know I’m being confusing. It’s because I’m still reading the Stephen King book, 11/22/63.

Still reading?

More like complete immersion. From the moment I picked up the book (or rather, downloaded the file to my new Nook tablet) I have done little else. I even find myself thinking with that southern accent from time to time. Often enough I may need to dive into my battered copy of Pride and Prejudice when I’m finished.

But for now, I’m connected to this story as if my very life depended on it.

My eyes have become so blurry at times I have to close them. And when I drift off to sleep, my addled brain tries to keep the story going, writing new directions to the plot.  My knowledge of history combined with the world woven within the pages of the book has driven my subconscious down paths almost as frightening as the rabbit holes fashioned by the master himself.

And this is why I love Stephen King. Or why I hate him. Either way I’m passionately involved in his tale to the point where I am neglecting everything else in my life. Just like the main protagonist in the story.

And speaking of Jake Epping…I need to get back to him. I’m only 200 pages from the end of the book, (there are quite a few hours before dawn) and my Nook battery should be full again, so I’d better get to it.

Until the next time…I’ll be reading (still…)