… by “The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” by Junot Diaz.

I have a map and the Wikipedia page of the Dominican Republic open on my computer. And, if I could fly off to Santo Domingo this very moment, I would. I’d travel to Baní, to La Vega, to Samana, even to Outer Azua to pay my respects to the fictional, ill-fated Cabrals. I only wish I could understand more Spanish.

I finally stopped sobbing and had the courage to close the book and put it down. It’s over now and I feel shattered.

Beside me, Nicolas is asleep. Apollo, our dog is on the floor. My hand is still on the book, not quite willing to let it go. Shell-shocked, I am at a loss as to what to do so I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. My eyes, in the mirror, are red and my face is puffy.

The last time this happened to me was when Dumbledore died in the Harry Potter books. I was inconsolable and had to wake Nicolas for a hug.

The first time it happened, my then-boyfriend and I were making our way back from a trip to our apartment in Mid-Levels, Hong Kong. I had come to the end of “The God of Small Things” and I coudn’t put it down. I look wild-eyed and distressed under the unforgiving lights of the Airport Express. “Are you okay,” my boyfriend asked. I couldn’t answer. As tears brimmed my eyes and started to spill down my cheeks, he started to look distressed. He stared at me hard and looked like he was telekenetically willing me to put down the book and, every now and then, I would, but only because I was overwhelmed and needed a moment.

The next time, I was on another train, this time on the 24-hour sleeper from Delhi to Goa. My El Salvadorian-Orange County gal pal, Rocio, and I were in the compartment that, I assumed, was reserved for foreigners because, together with some Bible-wielding, guitar-thumping teenaged missionaries, we were the only firangi in the car. I retreated to the upper bunk and curled up with “The Kite Runner”. Then my eyes strated to leak and wouldn’t stop leaking, even when a merry band of women and children on their way to a wedding came crashing by our little section, wanting to make friends. Later on, after I finished the book, utterly devastated, I sat on Rocio’s bed and stared at the pale boy strumming the guitar and the pimply girl with the braces next to him, then I took out the bottle of vodka Susan had left with us before we parted ways and she went off to Rishikesh, and chugged down the remains of its contents.

I love the power of a good story. After all, isn’t life itself just a collection of stories?

But I prefer fiction to non-fiction, especially historical non-fiction. Only because it takes me a horrifically long time to read. To this day, I haven’t finished Stefan Zweig’s (one of Nicolas’ favorite authors) “Marie Antoinette: The Portrait of an Average Woman”. Someone gave me a non-fiction book – with the word “empire” in the title – for my birthday last year and I must have read the first chapter ten billion times, trying to wrap my head around names and dates and the word “civilization”, and haven’t been able to progress any further.

Sadly, because of the distractions of the internet, to say that I am behind on my reading list is a gross understatement.

This year, I told myself that I would read more.

When I traveled to Australia earlier in the year, I read “A Visit From The Goon Squad” (- told in a early Christopher Nolan-ish kind of way, and depressed the hell out of me) and “Gone Girl” (- clever book; I almost stopped reading when I was put off by the style of writing until it became clear that it was a device – I told you it was clever).

Back in Manila, I read a few disturbing novels by A.M. Homes and then got stuck trying to understand the short stories of Raymond Carver. (I concede that I am hopelessly obtuse when it comes to poetry and short stories, unless they’re read out loud and maybe not even then.) I got even more stuck when a BFF gave me “tiny beautiful things (Advice on love and life from Dear Sugar” by Cheryl Strayed, which she was sure that I would love but, I had to confess, made me want to upchuck my innards. (I still haven’t finished it because it’s like nails on a chalkboard for me, but I might just read the letters from the readers to satisfy my voyeuristic inclinations.)

I transported a lot of books (from my shelves, from my desk, from under my desk, from under my bed – I told you I was behind on my reading) from Manila to Siargao, but “The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” is the first book that I’ve finally read all the way through whilst on the island this year.

And now that I’ve traveled to exotic lands and slipped in and out of different skins in a matter of hours without leaving my bed, I can’t wait to do it all over again! But maybe something a little less gut-wrenching this time. An easy enough work of non-fiction: “Blood, Bones & Butter – The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef” by Gabrielle Hamilton, another gift from aforementioned BFF. Hopefully, I won’t feel the need to part with my innards with this one.