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.
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