Did all of you hear me squeal from Indiana yesterday? Three packages came in the mail for me, and I squealed with delight. Wanna take a guess at what they might have been?
Okay. I guess it's kinda hard to play a guessing game on a blog. So I'll just have to tell you.
Oh my. I looked at each one's cover as I pulled them out of the bubble wrappers, oohing and aahing over the loveliness of them. And I'm pretty sure my husband thinks I'm crazy by now.
I must say I'm starting to get psyched over becoming a book reviewer. I mean, have I mentioned how much I really love books? What? I have? Oh yeah, I guess maybe once or twice or ten times.
Thinking back now, I guess I've loved books for a lot of years. I'm not sure when it started. There were seasons when I didn't do any reading. I was more into trying my hand at various crafts and sewing. But I keep coming back to reading.
I guess my preoccupation can be traced all the way back to childhood. My parents implemented a family reading time at night before bed. My sister and I would crawl up into their bed while Mom or Dad read the Little House on the Prairie series to us. Sometimes I couldn't keep my eyes open and would fall asleep, missing out on whatever was happening in "The Big Woods".
Recently I started recalling how we used to get the book fair catalogs in elementary school. I had forgotten about that. Every time we received a new one I would look and look and look and change my mind about 8 times trying to decide exactly the books or posters I wanted to order. I also remember being a bookmark freak, too. I'm not sure why a bookmark was so thrilling. Anyway, I knew I could only buy one or two items from the catalog, so I had to choose wisely.
I've tried to understand what's going on in my head with such a desire for books. I don't deny that I'm perceived as unusual because my heart starts racing anytime I get within two blocks of my public library, thinking that maybe, just maybe, I need to stop and see if there's a book on the shelves that is on my to-be-read list when in actuality I already have six novels awaiting me at home on my bookcase.
I know it's not about escapism. It's utterly impossible for me to read when I've got problems on my mind, so I know that can't be it. I just don't understand what it is that makes me do this.
Are you book readers? If so, why do you read? Are you obsessed with books like me?