Why I Must Be an Egyptian Ticking Clock

I have spent three weeks trying to fall in love with Jane Lindskold's The Buried Pyramid. It has everything I want in a novel: a spunky heroine, an interesting hero, adventure, exotic local, and a different time period. Throw in a little Egyptian magic, some pyramids, some treasures and curses and superstitions, and it should be everything I enjoy.

Should be. And yet, in three weeks, I made it less than fifty pages into the book. Every time I sat down with it, I was ready to like it, ready to fall into the story and get lost. Only to find my mind wandering and the story drifting from my thoughts.


My inability to focus on Lindskold's novel has nothing to do with her writing. Her writing is very beautiful, engaging, and well paced. It has something to do with me. I am utterly fascinated with all things ancient Egypt. I love the history of the culture, the hieroglyphics, the religions and pyramids. Yet, every time I try to read something nonfiction or fiction about Egypt, I nod off. When I have the opportunity to watch documentaries about the Egyptians, I find excuses to prevent myself.

I've come to the only conclusion that makes sense: Hidden within my DNA is a switch that will be activated when I learn a certain threshold amount of Egyptian facts. Once that switch is flipped, a horrific power in me will be unleashed, one that will blast me from my beloved life into the past, where I will be held on trial for the crimes of my past lives. Thus, into my DNA, I've put a fail-safe, one that prevents me from learning about all things Egyptian by forcing feelings of boredom into my neuro-network, making me turn aside from a fate worse than death.

It's the only answer that makes sense.