I am not the writer whose backstory includes always having my nose in a book. Most author…
We should feel free to branch out, fool around on what we at first believed was our first true love. Because the reason we read is to keep falling in love. We don’t want to read books that disappoint us. We don’t want to read books that make us hate reading. We want books that show us new worlds, introduce us to new characters, and make us fall in love all over again.
There I was – walking to the bus stop reciting out loud the high points of the book, and as time does in those years, suddenly I’m at the podium telling an audience of ninth graders about this book. I was thrilled when the main character in the story had to deal with his dead son, and how he just barely missed catching him before the kid got trampled by the truck. I went on and spun the story slower, gave details and had the class eating out of my hand, and I didn’t even know it
When I truly fell in love with a writer I was in a beat up convertible 1970 VW Bug, primer gray, my sister’s boyfriend’s prize possession. It was the summer of 1978 and the writer was not a novelist, or a short story writer, or a poet. Not technically. Though his words resonated with more life and romance and tragedy and pain and moodiness than anything I’d ever read.
This is about that summer when I was 22. By then, I was already devoted to books and hoping to write my own someday. I worked as a tour guide for the summer in a French chateau, and if that doesn’t sound like a premise for a hot romance novel, I don’t know what does. Unfortunately, there was no romance that summer. There wasn’t even any sex.
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