I am in desperate need of a five-star read. The problem is: I don’t even know what I’m looking for anymore…

I don’t feel like fluffy romances. God forbid a series longer than two books. Some kinks are not kinking anymore (I fear I’m getting immune). And fantasy… fantasy is starting to feel all the same.

Maybe I need a detox. Or maybe I need to go back to historical fiction: the Ken Folletts and Isabel Stilwells of this world, which I devoured like popcorn before I entered my Fantasy-Romance-Smut era.

I have 52 books planned for this year. I carefully lined them up in my beloved notebook, complete with reasons why I wanted to read each one. And now? Now, I don’t know what I want anymore.

I want alchemy.
I want my heart in my hands (but not through excessive, unrealistic trauma).
I want pure romance without clichés.
And I don’t want to keep jumping paragraphs just to reach the end faster (which I do when I start getting bored with a book).

Is that really too much to ask?

If I’m being honest, I should be writing and not reading. My book is not going to write itself, apparently.

But I can’t give up reading. Reality is too much most days, and reading is the only thing that allows me to safely dissociate. I’m a responsible woman. A mother, for Christ’s sake. I can’t do partying and heavy drinking anymore.

So reading it is — while praying for the five-star magic to finally happen.