This post is entirely dedicated to my newish-found love of books.
It’s no secret in my world that I have never been the bookworm of the family. My sister, the elder, has had a great love of books since before she could even read. She had a children’s bible, aptly titled “My First Bible,” about 1 1/2 or 2 inches thick, that my mother read to her as a young’n. Even though she couldn’t read it for herself, she had it memorized so perfectly that she would correct Mommy if she even replaced “Jonah” with “him” or forgot and “and” or “the.” It was a wee bit freakish.
I, on the other hand, was always the child who, during school story time (keep in mind, I’m homeschooled), was rolling on the floor and humming, trying to keep moving so I wouldn’t lose focus… while simultaneously still losing focus. Let me just throw out really quickly that nothing much has changed on that side of things. Cassie (the aforementioned elder sister) was the model child when it came to reading of any kind… when she was bored, she read. When I was bored I went something like:
Except imagine Elsa reading a book.
Except I also did that when Cassie was asleep.
Which explains why I was elbowing her ribcage during that scene.
Back on subject, though, I have, recently-ish discovered that books are actually pretty darn great. See, at first, I just liked the idea of books.
The smell, the look, etc, you know. Then I thought about books I’ve read that I really liked, To Kill a Mickingbird, for instance, or The Giver. And I realized that, hey, I kind of like books. So I started reading them. And I started enjoying them. And it’s been great.
So books and I have been together for about a year or so now, and it’s going great so far. I’ve gone through about 10 this year (which is huge, considering my record before was about 2 a year [willingly]). We’ve learned when to spend some time apart, but, for the most part, it’s been smooth sailing.
I think books and I will be very happy together.