Earlier this week, when I was back in Ohio visiting my parents, I was reminded of where my love of reading was born. No matter where you look in their house, you’re bound to see a book. They are in built-in bookcases and free-standing ones. They are sitting on top of desks and nestled in baskets and perched precariously in stacks on top of chairs. Downstairs are the novels my parents cherish and upstairs are the ones I adored from my childhood that my mom has so lovingly saved. I loved growing up in an environment like this, where a dazzling array of miniature worlds existed within the four walls of where I lived.

When I moved into my new place last year, one of the first things I purchased was a set of bookshelves for my living room, which now proudly display the books that I’ve collected over the years. I have a considerably smaller amount than my parents (they probably have upward of 1,000) but it’s a collection nonetheless. Although some find the purchase of books frivolous, being surrounded by them brings me an immense amount of joy—when I peruse a bookstore or walk around a library or run my hands across my own collection, I swear I get the same feelings I do when I am hugged by someone I love. Continue reading “A Love Affair with Books”