Of the many new senses I’ve developed with age – now, for example, I really can smell something and determine, with authority, that it’s gone bad, a skill that would SO have come in handy during the poverty years – my least favorite is this highly attuned “appropriate-ness” radar I seem to suddenly have going on.
I love books. And, to be clear: when I say this, I mean actual, physical books. The objects. I like going to bookstores and thumbing through their pages. I like hanging out in libraries, exploring the stacks and searching for hidden treasures. I like curling up with a kid – or three – nestled in my lap, peering at the pages as we read together. I like checking in on my sleeping boys to see books propped open in their beds. I like to flip open my favorites to their dog-eared pages, the ones with the passages of incredible prose that inspired me to become a writer myself and run my fingers over the well-worn type. I even love the smell of books.