As a writer, I naturally love books. Boy, do I love books. New books. Old books. Big books, small. Hard cover, paper backâ€”I love them all. I love to read books. I enjoy writing them. I love to buy books, borrow books and trade them back and forth. Books make excellent gifts, both to receive and give away.
I love the smell of a new book, and the way the crisp pages rustle when I turn them. The smell of an old book is even better, and the way the worn pages feel between my fingersâ€”fragile and softâ€”thereâ€™s nothing quite like it. I think I love old books better than new ones. I like to think about the people who read the book before me. Was this one of their favorites? Is that why itâ€™s so dog-eared? Or was the book owned by many different people? Moving from reader to reader, from place to place. Who bought it and when? And Iâ€™m always in awe thinking about the authors who actually wrote the older books, back in the day before computers. It boggles the mind.
Not only do I love books, I love bookstores, too. New bookstores, used bookstores and how about libraries? Oh yeah. Aisles and aisles of books. Shelves upon shelves of countless books. All ready to be picked up and read. Pored over and studied. Savored and enjoyed.
Most writers I know say they wrote stories or â€œbooksâ€ as children. I didnâ€™t write much when I was a little girl. Instead, I made small booksâ€”the actual, physical books. I would take a piece of cardboard and fold it in half for the cover. I would meticulously measure and cut the pages to fit. To bind them together, I would use staples or bradsâ€”sometimes, I would sew the binding. I made picture books and â€œschoolâ€ books. I went through a phase in second grade making miniature missalsâ€”the prayer books used to follow the mass. I donâ€™t know if this was because I attended Catholic school and had just received the sacraments, or if it was because the mass had changed from Latin to English. Who knows what went on in the mind of my eight-year-old self?
Books not only give me reading and writing pleasure, they give me esthetic pleasure, too. I love to decorate with books. In my opinion, a room without books is a cold, unfriendly place. Almost every room in my house holds bookshelves full of books. I have small groupings of books decoratively placed under lamps, on table tops and even on the floor. Books not only hold the promise of wonderful stories between their covers, they beckon me with their warmth, inviting me to sit down and make myself comfortable.
I love to be surrounded by books. My keeper shelf holds old favorites, and I continually add new finds. Itâ€™s always exciting to discover a new book to add to my keeper shelf. When Iâ€™m down and feeling blue, I rely on my â€œcomfortâ€ reads to help pull me through. I donâ€™t know how many times Iâ€™ve read some of these books over the last (gulp!) thirty years. Old books are like old friends. Theyâ€™re always there when you need them.
I canâ€™t imagine my life without books. I have a t-shirt with the slogan: So many books . . . So little time. So true.
Happy Reading and Writing!!! Anne Marie 🙂