A bazaar crowded with random offerings. William Gibson/Henrik Ibsen. Zafon, Murakami, Van Gogh. A table of well-thumbed Louisa May Alcott. Shiny Urban Fantasy and an aromatic clutter of cookbooks.
If there is one thing for which I am unconditionally grateful, it's books.
To quote Stephen Sondheim (Passion): "I read to live / To get away from life." You can imagine my delight at spotting the recent HuffPo piece publicizing the health benefits of reading. Books have always been my necessities and my luxuries, my entertainment and my labor.
Since you're reading this on BookLikes, I expect this all makes perfect sense to you. And you'll understand why Thanksgiving seems an excellent opportunity to express my gratitude for everyone who contributed to my own life-in-books.
For my mother, who read aloud to me at night, and my father, who somehow found the money to buy books. For the teachers who taught me how to read and write, and the librarians who pointed me towards the shelves and allowed me to explore them freely. For the baby-sitter who handed down her outgrown library, and the managers of the college bookstore who anticipated where my growth would take me next.
I give boundless thanks for writers, far too many to thank by name. I wish they could all hear me, across the centuries and the globe. I thank them all: everyone who, regardless of the obstacles, wrestled with words and pinned them down so that the stories would live beyond the confines of their own minds and I could someday read them.
By the same token, I am so very grateful for my own readers, and to all the friends who've supported me over the years. Because if a story is told without there being someone to receive, it cannot be said to exist.
Happy Thanksgiving, fellow book lovers!