I admit I own more books than I do shoes, clothes and animals, although there may be a healthy debate as to who owns whom on the latter. Books are not mere things. They are the dust collecting chasm of my soul, the pulp on which tree and author have given their lives. In them I live and breathe a different life, as many as I chose. I have always been a dreamer. Diversity thrives in every writer’s words, in sentences that lay them bare. Found in the oddest of characters, settings and plots are rare sparkling gems which gleam with words so clear one rereads them, momentarily pulled from that other world into the something greater which connects us all. Here where the author and universe bleed through even the most clichéd of books has something to tell.
Maybe this is why I write, to capture that feeling which a great book gives once it is read. Fingers caressing that last page, a tinge of remorse at the parting, knowing it is time to say goodbye yet satisfied at having met.