Books are a passion of mine. I’ll read pretty much anything, with my specialty being cereal boxes early in the morning. I’ve been reading since I was two and have spent many hours living different lives, happily ensconced in a world others have created. When I’m having a bad day, I take off to my local library or bookstore and immerse myself in the shelves for hours, clearing my head and focusing on nothing but my next discovery.
When I’m traveling, I seek out independent and used bookshops. There are quite a few on my list, physical treasure troves filled with words. The people working in these stores are readers. They love books. When I mention how much I love the smell of their stores, they don’t look at me as if I’ve lost my mind. There is a tactile eroticism in picking up an old book, its pages lovingly worn, dog eared, and if you’re lucky, notes made by the previous reader.
I’m also what’s called a “librocubicularist,” meaning I like to read in bed. I also like to read in the bath, but have dropped too many books, so don’t read there as often. I’ll read anywhere.