There is something about books. Old books, new books, second hand books, borrowed books. It really doesn’t bother me much, as long as I have them. It’s not a small addiction, but at least I can absolutely credit my parents for giving it to me. I firmly believe that their shared love of reading, of learning and their passion for books was handed down to us kids in the very air we breathed. Our home was filled with books. We were read to as infants, had books of our own as toddlers and small children and as we grew, our passion was indulged at every turn. All in all, not a bad way to be raised. To this day, I find it difficult to understand homes that have no (or very few) books in them. It is as if I have a natural distrust of that emptiness.
Don’t get me wrong, I have some amazing friends who have uttered those dreadful words “oh, I don’t read much”. It’s shocking, I know. Subtle gifts of some of my favourite books have failed to entice them and I am resigned to the fact that they have fallen prey to the dark side. Ok, I jest. Not quite on the dark side. However, I am comforted by the fact that we have other things in common and that I have built a large circle of like-minded book lovers with whom I can share my nuttiness. A passion that has now lead to me following my heart into helping authors with their promotions.
In the same way that many of my childhood favourites will always be voiced by my Mother or my Father, no matter how many times I read them, being a part of the journey with an author weaves that book into the fabric of my life. Adds them to my mental library as it were.
Let me tell you, it’s a journey that never gets old.