If you’re looking at this page, you can probably tell I love books, as much as that seems an understatement to me. I love to read. I live to read. While I assure you I have a full and varied life aside from the bookshelves, I still spend an inordinate amount of time reading books, buying books, stroking books… Well, you get the idea.
The fact that I have absolutely no room to store all these books is completely besides the point.
Ok, first up… I’m mostly a paperback girl. I struggle to get comfortable with a hardback – too cumbersome – and while I have a Kindle, I just don’t get the same feeling of satisfaction as I do with a paper copy.
Of course, reference books are a whole other thing. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the stunning Books That Changed History in a paperback format. I will gladly admit I very much judged this book by its cover, and knew I had to have it the moment I clapped eyes on it.
What kind of books can you expect me to talk about? Short answer: all of them. I am a very eclectic reader, and like a little of everything. While my main preferences would lead me mostly towards historical, fantasy and science fiction (adult preferred over YA), I will literally read any genre (although some serious persuasion may be required for me to pick up a Mills & Boon), including the back of a cereal box! I am currently also working my way through the 1001 Books to Read Before You Die list, so there will likely be a lot of classics mentioned too.
When I was younger, I was also a voracious writer. People had me pegged as a future novelist from the age of 5, and I was always scribbling one thing or another, from stories, poems and songs to full-blown novels (which were full of teenage hormones, angst and know-it-all, and a complete embarrassment to read as an adult!).
My writing slowed and stopped around the time I met my husband, got married and had kids. Not so much because I no longer had the time – although that played a part – but because of the simple fact that my husband is a truly gifted writer. We met one day in a local pub, where he was sitting on the floor, surrounded by a manuscript. I offered to type it up for him, and the rest is history.
Why did this stop me from writing myself? Honestly, it was frustration at an inability to compete. I married a man whose first drafts were better written than most people’s finished work. His blooming shopping lists are better written than most people’s finished work! And ideas for him are 10 a minute. On a bad day. It was a purely self-conscious feeling of inadequacy on my part that stilled my pen, my husband never anything less than extremely supportive.
And now, almost twenty years later, I am slowly getting back into writing. Again, I guess it is frustration that drives me. Husband dear – who wrote a story one day and decided to send it to a magazine, only to have it immediately published and subsequently singled out and raved about by critics – has not written a single thing in all that time. This complete waste of incredible talent is, as far as I’m concerned, a terrible crime against the written word, and I live in hope that one day he will go back to writing.
In the meantime, I guess I don’t have to “compete”, and can safely put pen to paper once more myself. And to get me started, I picked up a copy of 642 Things to Write About, hoping the prompts will kick-start things. It’s gotta be like riding a bike, right?
Have a great day book lovers!