I was lucky if I could make it through one book in a single month. Between work, relationships, and my smartphone, finding time to sit down and unplug with a good book was like a chore in itself. Eventually all those to-be-read piles I used to devour on the regular got bigger and bigger, with no end in sight. They were signs that proved I’d loved each and every one of my books to the fullest.īut then life happened and my free time disappeared. Most of all, I loved the way books looked after I finished reading them: the creases down their spines and the stains left behind by spilled drinks, and the way the pages inside got all swollen and dog-eared along the way. I’d do whatever it took to make it through just one more chapter. I didn’t care how ridiculous I looked (but spoiler, I knew I looked ridiculous).

Inspired by this little scene in Beauty and the Beast, I even figured out how to walk and read at the same time and narrowly-miraculously-managed to avoid tripping and falling each time. If there was a paperback or hardcover that caught my eye, I didn’t just read it, I devoured it. Growing up, I was always the kid with her nose stuck in the middle of one. I don’t really remember what my life was like before books.

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