For the Love of Books

I am a huge bookworm. I am like those earthworms in Australia that grow several incredible feet long. But with glasses. And a book. Ok, maybe two. Ok, a whole tote full.

I’m the weird chick walking down the sidewalk, oblivious to the world, her nose buried in a book. I bring books to parties in case I need some quiet time away from it all. There is always an ‘emergency’ book in the car for the long waits at the dentist’s office. Books are stacked up in mounds all over my house, tall piles teetering beside the couch, shorter piles on the dining room table, nightstands, kitchen counters and unused chairs. (My cats give me the stink eye when I dare to throw books on their chair.) I am surrounded by books, drowning in books, obsessed with books, in love with books.

It is all my mother’s fault. She is an avid reader as well, although she doesn’t have the collection obsession that I do. (Library lurker.) There are actual bookcases in her house. Books don’t usually accost her visitors in some way. (All of my piles are notorious for sliding over onto unsuspecting housecallers.) Still, she is just as big of a bookworm as me. And thank goodness for that, because it always, even in the worst of times, gives us something to talk about.

We talk about our current reads: bad, terrible, good, great. One of my greatest accomplishments is introducing my mom to a new fabulous author, and believe me, it happens very rarely. We differ in what we read day to day… she is a mystery fan, and I can only seem to get into Janet Evanovich (All her books are funny as hell and a great escape, start with One for the Money, and keep going all the way through). I like science fiction and fantasy and my mom could care less about any of it. But we always like to hear about what the other is reading, and we often recommend novels to each other.

It is comforting to know that I can always pick up the phone and burble about the best book ever, which I have just finished, and mourn it’s passing. It’s also nice to have a back-up topic in case I have pushed her one too many times about moving to my town and she’s so fed up with me that she goes silent, or when I’ve had my fill of chatting about my son. (So far, he is her only grandson, and let me tell you, there is a love affair going on there that is beyond my capacity to understand some days, like when he has been whining for 12 days straight, or when he goes crashing through my living room as The Thing, leaving destruction in his wake.) Books have always brought us together, from the lurching beginnings of my reading career to my current status of tentative writer. My greatest hope is that one day I will write something so fantastic that after reading it, the first thing she is compelled to do is to call me up and tell me that I simply must add it to my bulging bookworm’s tote. I will know then that I have truly succeeded.