I was a goner at my first introduction. There was something magical about opening and closing a book, even if I was reading the same sentences again and again. Okay, the pictures helped and who doesn’t love Dr. Seuss or the Bernstein Bears?
It only got worse from there.
Newbery Award winners, classics, the ever popular and the tried and true, didn’t matter the genre, just that I could escape into another world. Borrowed library books, hand me downs, comics, even cereal boxes, I read them all. Yes, I fell hard and fast for the written word.
The love affair hasn’t changed much over the years. Pretty covers and cool titles still easily dazzle me. I’ll still read a book all the way through (or try to) if it is shit because as a writer the shitty ones teach you more than the best ever could.
Yet nothing compares to great writing. When I’m zoned out of my world and in someone else’s I’m happy. If I find the sweet spot – that place where the reader and writer in me agree to forget all but the landscape in front of me, I meld with the page. Those these days are rare, the-elusive-more-precious-than-gold, heart-string-plucking, movie-in-my-mind, I-never-want-this-book-to-end, find.
So here is a shout out to all those books I’ve loved before. The ones neglected on my bookshelf and revered – if only I could remember why – and the ones whose story will never leave. I honor you.