For those of you who thought I merely floated an idea of a new page here, coaxed you for your opinions and then disappeared; I most sincerely apologise. And also… Here it is!
I was unsure what should be the first conversation around here, what with the millions of options available. And as will often happen to me in the face of tooooo much choice I just gave up thinking about it. And then there I was sick in bed, with a book in my hand and the thought came to me… what better than books! What could be easier or more obvious!
We’re a dying breed, it would seem, we book lovers. And I’ve often wondered why. How is it that we were different as chidren from the kids of today or what did our parents do different, maybe? I, for one, do not remember a time in my life which was without books. In fact, when I think about it I can not even imagine how my love affair with books began. To me it seems they were always just there.
I remember a birthday, possibly when I turned eight, when coincidentally everybody gifted me books. And I remember all I wanted to do as soon as I unwrapped them was sit right there, in all my celebratory regalia, on the floor and read them all. And if I remember correctly, that’s precisely what I did do. I remember a book of Russian folktales called the House of Pomegranates – the only book in which I found the pictures more fascinating than the words; and an unabridged version of Huckleberry Finn which upset me greatly because I couldn’t understand all of it – both gifts from my father.
As far as I’m concerned, life, without books, is incomplete. Imagine the whole depth of human experience – real or imagined – that would be unknown to us if there were no books. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve wept over a character or shut the covers of a book in the face of impending horror. Perhaps, its because of the joy they brought to me that I knew, even as a child, that I’d write for children someday.
‘I was never alone or lonely. I was a reader.’
What do you think… About any of it? Please tell! 🙂