For the Love of Literature

There are a lot of things that I love in life. Lists, for example. I love lists. Oh, and makeup, obviously…I loooooove makeup. I love words, too, and new notebooks and glossy magazines and cold days spent in Barnes and Noble [it’s the perfect front, really – you can make yourself believe that you will get some homework done within those hallowed walls, when in reality, you know that nothing of the sort is going to happen]. I adore my little brother and buying gifts for people and laughing and surprise phone calls from long-lost friends and fireplaces and front porches and What Not To Wear and Jon and Kate Plus 8. I love greeting cards and writing letters and introducing my friends to each other and to false eyelashes and I love telling stories. But do you know what I love, I mean, what I really love?

I love books. I love how intelligent I feel when I can reference classic authors and their works, ideas, and philosophies. I love how a book can change the way you see your life, how it can take you away from reality and instantly transport you to a far-off world. I love it when books become friends, and they begin to make you laugh and cry and feel the way that people can. I love the way that books feel in my hand and the sacred feeling that runs through my body when I open one. I love knowing that an entire world, an entire story exists in the pages that I am about to read, and anticipating the thrill that I am about to experience.

I love that the women in my family taught me to love to read. I love that Mimi and Aunt Debbie and Mom all fostered a passion for stories in my little heart when I was young; I love that they all bought me books and journals every chance they could. I love that I can still walk into a bookstore with Mimi and five minutes later we both have armfuls of books and she lets me choose three to get. I love that my mom read to me when I was little and that even now, if I were to hear her reading something out loud, I would stop in my tracks so that I could sit down and listen. I love that she always knew that I was going to be a writer, but she let me figure it out for myself.

I love sharing my books and stories with my friends and family. I love that Jessie comes into my bedroom and treats my bookshelf like a library, just like I do with Mimi. I love that I am influenced by authors or books [or bookstores, as I am today] and that when I write these random musings, in a way, I am sharing it with all of you.

Books have a place in my heart that nothing else can touch. It’s a different passion than the one I have for makeup, for example. Makeup is artistic and beautiful and otherworldly and thrilling. It is like the explosion of a firework, impressive and amazing all at once. Books, on the other hand, slowly grow and blossom and flourish, climaxing and ebbing like ivy on a wall. It’s a different kind of love, a different kind of appreciation. It makes me feel safe, yet adventurous, content, yet restless.

If I could move into a bookstore, I would. I can only imagine the logistical complications that would accompany that, however, so I content myself with turning my living space into a book haven in and of itself. If anyone is looking for birthday ideas, then [T-29 days] Barnes and Noble might be a really good place to start…