OK, the title of this post is perhaps a little silly and I am stating the obvious. There cannot be a writer out there who does not love books, but I am open to comments if you can prove me wrong. Anyway, my point is that I love books. I have always loved books. As a child, my mother taught me to read, and would take me to our local library every Saturday morning. I would step into that small one storey building full of excitement and happiness, and spend a few hours searching the shelves in the tiny children’s fiction section, picking out my allocated allowance of six books. I would then read them all within a few days, return the following weekend, and do the whole thing again. I loved it!
Now that I am officially a published author, I feel on top of the world. I have just finished writing my third book, and I immediately started writing a fourth. The words flowed effortlessly, the stories are buzzing round my head, and I am both excited and overwhelmed with it all. But that is only half of my situation. I have an enormous pile of books to be read. That is just the paperbacks, and a couple of hardbacks. On my new Kindle I have something like sixty books or more, including samples. And somehow I ended up back in our local library the other day, and came home with another five books to read. Talk about a sucker for punishment!
This obsessive behavior got me thinking. Perhaps I am addicted to books. I have to touch them, to feel the texture of their covers and smell the familiar library smell of the ones I borrow. Even on my Kindle, I like the sharp definition of text, and the neatly ordered electronic pages. I feel such excitement every time I pick up a book, whether it be fiction or non-fiction. The point is I will learn something from each story, and I will experience new people, new places, and new adventures. I love books. I am a bookaholic. Who’s with me?