I've already established that I cry when we go to the movies. I cry when we watch movies at home. My personal record is the afternoon we watched 'Up' and 'Toy Story 3' back-to-back.
I LIVE the film, the novel, the rolling saga, the trilogy in seven parts, I live ALL of it; it's the only way I know to approach storytelling.
Well, it seems that there's a second medium to add to my waterworks-provoking repertoire: the novel, spoken out loud.
I've been reading J.R.R. Tolkien's 'The Hobbit' to my daughters for a while now; this evening we reached the chapter of this blog post's title.
Boy, is this good stuff! I'm there within the cosseting gloom of bedtime, doing all the voices and then… I simply could not continue. The emotions of the tragic scene unfolding before us, after LIVING the preceding tale spilled over and…
After a few false starts, and Just as I'd managed to compose myself, my youngest daughter, oh-so-nearly 7, wondered aloud if maybe I didn't know how to pronounce the words on the page, and offered to read on my behalf.
And yes, that kindness again stopped the story reading in its tracks; I had to excuse myself, promising to restart the chapter following evening.
And so I shall.