so i have depression, i take meds and i talk with people about it but im also bored/empty alot and i just want something to do that is diffrent, if that makes sense. i havent read a book in quite some time and im considerd a slow reader becasue im dylexic and i lack motivation. i feel if i find a good book to help with this it might help witha few things.

i dont want a super duper brick sized book or horror, im more into anything but that also fiction like fantasy, sci-fi, cyberpunk, something that feels modern also manga but manga is more exspensive than a book, etc just no horror or anyhting weird.

also where is a good place to get physical books from at a discount?

  • reality_boy@lemmy.world
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    1 year ago

    The bone series of graphic novels are great. There are plenty of them, there easy to read, and there funny. Check the local library, they will have them all.

    I’m a big fan of Douglas Addams (hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy, dirk gently). He is easy to read and has a very sharp sense of houmor.

    The Lunar Chronicles is another easy series to get into. Technically these are romances, but the romance is very light. It is a cyborg retelling of classic fairy tales.

    • Redhotkurt@kbin.social
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      1 year ago

      Bone is great, but I think Adams’ work, particularly The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, will resonate with OP. You’re right, it’s an easy read (but not necessarily simple), and it never feels like a chore. @QuietStorm, if the opening paragraphs appeal to you, you might dig this book:

      The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village. It stood on its own and looked out over a broad spread of West Country farmland. Not a remarkable house by any means—it was about thirty years old, squattish, squarish, made of brick, and had four windows set in the front of a size and proportion which more or less exactly failed to please the eye.

      The only person for whom the house was in any way special was Arthur Dent, and that was only because it happened to be the one he lived in. He had lived in it for about three years, ever since he had moved out of London because it made him nervous and irritable. He was about thirty as well, tall, dark-haired and never quite at ease with himself. The thing that used to worry him most was the fact that people always used to ask him what he was looking so worried about. He worked in local radio which he always used to tell his friends was a lot more interesting than they probably thought. It was, too—most of his friends worked in advertising.

      On Wednesday night it had rained very heavily, the lane was wet and muddy, but the Thursday morning sun was bright and clear as it shone on Arthur Dent’s house for what was to be the last time.

      It hadn’t properly registered yet with Arthur that the council wanted to knock it down and build a bypass instead.