When I was a kid, the library was one of my favorite places. I'd burst through the doors, auto-pilot to the kid's section, and get to work shoving books into a huge, red cloth bag stamped with the logo of a random company. Book after book went into the bag. Books I'd read and reread, books I'd never seen before, and books that I'd picked off the shelf, only to be put back, jumbled together in the deep recesses of my red bag. When I was finished and had checked out my books, I'd go home and begin to read.
My love for books hasn't diminished since the good old days of Corduroy and Caps for Sale. If anything, it's grown deeper. I have come to appreciate the diligent labor that authors perform to immortalize their stories and the deeply personal aspect of publishing their thoughts for the world to see. My propensity to become attached to characters has grown; I often find myself rooting for characters, crying for characters, and feeling like I've lost a friend when the story is over.
I miss reading. So very, very much. I miss reading like one would miss a friend. I miss the nights when I'd stay up far later than I ever intended to because I was sucked in so deeply to a good story. Those nights when just one more page turned to two pages, which turned into a chapter, only to morph into two more chapters and then I'll go to bed for sure and before I knew it, the book was over and the night was, too.
I love to read. I crave reading. When people tell me that they don't like to read, I tend to give them the same look I give people who hate chocolate or naps or holding babies--I just can't understand it, no matter how hard I try. Reading is something I have done and have loved to do for as long as I can remember.
I read, therefore I am.
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