Books, Glorious Books

I have bookcases! My books are unpacked (finally), and sitting proud on the shelves. Every time I walk into the family room I smile. There’s something about seeing the vibrant colors on the spines of the books that just makes me feel good. Books to read for the sheer pleasure of reading them and books for studying the craft.

It’s sort of like what came first the reader or the writer. Truth be known that’s a hard question so I called the one woman who would know and remember perhaps accurately then I would. My mom. Her answer? “You did both.”

Okay, so that’s not what I was looking for, but as we continued to talk she reminded me of how many times a book (probably a little Golden Book) would be read to me and then I’d try to write my own story. Especially if I didn’t like the way the book ended. I mean really the chicken running around saying the sky is falling just bothered me. Even at an early age I wanted to tell the chicken to wise up, the sky couldn’t fall.

So I wrote my own. Well, I scribbled what I thought were words to make my own stories until I realized that one, I couldn’t read that well just yet, and two, I didn’t know how to spell the words in my stories. Again, mom or my best friend who was older than me and could already read and write chapter books.

We’d sit and I’d tell my story. It was great. I’d changed characters and plotlines and make the big bad wolf beg for forgiveness or my favorite was when I was older and wrote the continuing tales of the Wizard of Oz. Who knew back then there were already books out there with other story lines?

The cozy teenage mysteries of my youth were the best. I loved Trixie Bleden and wanted to so bad to be in the club with Honey and Jim. And I couldn’t wait for Trixie to get old enough for Jim to kiss her. :) Yep, many of you may have guessed it. I wrote my own scenes. Very sweet and tender scenes where their hands brushed each others and Jim stared deep into Trixie’s eyes as her legs became wobbly. He’d tuck the strands of hair that were free from her ponytail back behind her ear. And then ever so slow he’d lean forward while her eyes closed and…kiss her on the cheek. Hey, I was only ten years old. Kissing on the lips wasn’t allowed just yet.

What I remembered as I unpacked books and lovingly sat them in their new place of honor is I’ve always loved to read and I’ve always loved to write. I told Science Guy that now our new home felt like a home and not a house.

Oh yeah, in case you thought I forgot about the surprise, nope just not quite ready to reveal it. Heehee

So, what about you? Since we’re all readers and many are writers, I’m sure you’ve got books. But do you feel a sense of rightness when you see them? When everything else in the world is going crazy are they the things that can help you escape if only for a little while? And what about writing? Are you like me? Did you every want to change the ending of the stories of your youth?

Writing Wishes and Plotting Dreams,
Vicki