The first Christmas present I remember ever opening was a huge (to me) box of books and tapes. It is my earliest memory…opening that box, being excited, and lying on my tummy listening to a tape reading Snow White as I flipped through the pictures. I asked my mother about it – I was two 🙂
So began my long love affair with books. I love them. I love getting sucked into the worlds they spin, falling in love with the characters that live within the pages. There is literally no time in my life that I can remember NOT reading. I’ve gone through periods where I have haven’t written (though even that I began at a very early age…I recently found a little “book” I’d written for my brother…I think I was five 😀 ). But never, ever, have I ever stopped reading.
I have an overflowing bookcase in every room of my house and could easily fill more. I also have a fully loaded Nook and recently downloaded the Kindle app for my laptop. But there is something about holding a real book in my hands that just feels like home to me. I love to let the pages fan through my fingers as I read. I love that musty old paper scent that lingers on my hands long after I’ve put the book down. I love how my problems just melt away for awhile as I spend time with characters I’ve grown to love. Or how fun it is to sit down with an encyclopedia or a biography or a good non-fiction on medieval Europe and just soak it all in. My heart seriously starts beating a little faster just thinking about it 😀
Reading is like a drug to me, an addiction. I literally cannot get enough. I crave words. I need them. I will never read enough to satisfy my craving and I’ll never be able to write enough to get all these stories out of my head. And that works just fine for me 🙂 Life without literature, in all its forms, would be just….unthinkably sad.