Books are truly one of my favourite things. Old or new- used or rare, I love books. I have shelves of them, boxes of them, and continually add to my collection. I love the smell of books, and I would happily spend hours in a book store, especially a store filled with old books. This for me is heaven.
95% of my books are non-fiction. You will find law books, marketing books, business books, physiology, and religion. You will find books on everything from sex to photography, cooking and wine to travel and art.
My books are well read, hard covered and soft, the pages sport coloured sticky notes marking pages, the pages themselves are highlighted, there are notes in the margins, and yes, even the odd ‘dog-ear’ (sorry Mom!).
My mom loved books, she read to me all the time. She read to me whatever book she was reading, as well as children’s stories, she read me the classics, and she taught me the joy of a book, and taught me not to break their spine, or dog-ear the pages. She made up voices for the characters and painted a verbal ‘movie’ that played inside my head. I loved that special time we spent together. I love the gift of love of books she gave me.
The last five percent of my book collection are fiction. Here too I experiment. Mystery one day, romance another. I think it is a wonderful thing to buy a book from an author you have never heard of before. To discover a great book, be it new or written twenty-five years ago, it a great pleasure for me.
A great book takes you on a magic carpet ride; suddenly you are there, living the story. Sometimes I am disappointed, there are books out there that don’t suit your personal taste, and sometimes I am very pleasantly surprised as I discover another author I like.
I mentioned once that when I die, the thought of all my books being given away or thrown away breaks my heart. Silly I know, but in a way they represent me, the layers of me. No wonder I became a writer hmmmm?