I’ve always loved books! Libraries and bookstores. Even now, my idea of a perfect date with my husband is to get a venti mocha and meander through a bookstore for a couple of hours. I love fiction, scandalous biographies, cookbooks, history books and own a growing collection of “old books” published in the 1800s. Books are everywhere in my house. On the kitchen counter, in the living room, in baskets, on bookshelves, on the edge of my bathtub (pages warped, from bubble-bath reading).
I grew up an Army brat, so my family moved every couple of years, depending on my dad’s assignments. One of the first things my mom would do when we arrived at a new location, was to find the local library, whether we were in a new town or on a military base. I guess sometimes I immersed too far into those imaginary worlds. One summer, a month or two after we’d moved to Panama, my mom had me take out the trash. Only I found the door locked when I tried to get back into the house. “Go find some friends!” she shouted through the door. She told me I had to quit reading in my room, and actually let the light of the sun touch my skin.
I’m still making friends, and I still love books. I live in Texas, where I am raising two little bibliophiles. I do have other interests besides books, though none as consuming. I love to cook, and eat, and go to flea markets. I’d love to learn to crochet or knit, and make big fluffy colorful scarves for all my pals, but my brain can’t handle the precision necessary to make all those exact rows upon rows of loops.