By definition I am insane.
Books are my best friends.
We will blame it on my mother. Who, in her good heart probably wanted a little peace and quiet during the day—which is understandable, considering I’m the youngest of nine—and granted to pay me one penny for every page I read.
So I naturally became one of those kids. The one that sits in the back of class to hide her book under the desk from the teacher, or sneaking into the bathtub with a flashlight to read in the middle of the night, or reading a series of books in a bookstore without actually buying them. I was and am one of those.
I become enchanted with words. Their structure, their meaning, their flexibility, they make everything in life have more color.
I still struggle inside to find my true identity. Can’t I be all of my favorite characters? I would choose the confidence and wit of Anne Shirley, the propriety and etiquette of Elizabeth Bennett, and the firmness of character of Eleanor Dashwood.
So whether I am 5 or 21, some things won’t ever change. I will always be clutching onto a book. And no doubt that half of my banking account will be paying off my library debt for the rest of my life.
The books I have read now define me. These aren’t just stories, this is my story.