When I was a kid, I spent pretty much every penny of my allowance on books–Scholastic Books to be precise. When I was in first grade, and went to my first ever book fair in school, I was overwhelmed. I could BUY books, take them home and KEEP them.
I still remember the two books I bought at that fair. They were the Little Golden Books of Mary Poppins (which I’d seen at the movies – my very first movie!) and Perri (the squirrel), from a Disney special I’d seen.
Those books opened the door to many, many more over the years, from Nancy Drew onwards. I gorged myself on words–escaped to Sleepyside-on-Hudson with Trixie and Honey; learned about Depression era migrant farming and slipped into The Velvet Room with Robin. I took the oil from the magic bottle and grew wings to fly with young Harry Houdini Marco.
Books were, and continue to be, my own personal magic. I can right wrongs, fight the good fight, and be home in time for dinner. My mom still says that sending me to my room as a punishment was pretty much useless, because I just curled up in bed with a book. She was so right.
Now, as a nearly 60 year old adult, I still view books as the ultimate getaway. From frothy humor to disturbing horror, I’ll pretty much read anything–as long as the writing is good and I enjoy the story. I will cringe, cry, sob, laugh out loud and let the words take me away, even if it’s just for a couple of hours.
Is it any wonder that I became a writer?