I’m not a book snob. I didn’t major in English and I don’t read the New York Times Book Review. Typos bug me, but I don’t think that makes me overly literary. I just love to read. I always have a book (or two or three) with me when I travel, always have one on my bedside table, and a stack of ‘em ready to attack on my bookshelf. I love borrowing, lending, browsing, recommending, chatting about, and getting annoyed with typos in books. So I guess you could say this is the story of me through one of my favorite things – books.
I’m always impressed by autobiographers who claim to remember detailed conversations from age three. My memory is not so impressive, but I do remember falling in love with reading.
At our house bedtime always meant story time, and my Mom would patiently let me sound out the words. We were both surprised one night when I read the word “somersault.” A better biographer would know what book this was, but I only know it was a story about bears. Quite possibly of the polar variety, but no matter. My feat gave me the confidence to attack this book- reading thing on my own. And what better tome to conquer than Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs? I was soon well on my way to lifelong friendships with Ramona Quimby, Superfudge, Matilda and the BFG.
So, there you have it. Stories through books – that’s my stake in the ground. I hope you find it more entertaining than my back-up option – stories through microwave dinners.
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