The First Confession

I might as well get this off my chest right here, right now.


I am a self-diagnosed bookaholic.


I love books. I love their hundreds of pages, worn with creases from thousands of readings. I love their covers, with bright colors and eye-catching designs. I love their smell, that "come hither" aroma they hold between their spines. I love walking into a bookstore and seeing walls upon walls of books, lined up like little soldiers on the bookcases.


I've loved reading since before I can even remember. What I do recall are the innumerable nights I spent awake in bed, waaay past my bedtime, devouring the latest book I'd gotten my little hands on. I owned one of those cheap, plastic (and purple) book lights that attached to the book itself, meaning I had to unclip and reclip it each time I turned a page. Annoying or not, this was worth the hassle to get in a few extra minutes of reading after my bedroom light had been shut off.


Not to sound morbid or self-deprecating, but as a kid, I didn't have a lot of friends. I was the bookworm, the girl who longed for her school's book fairs more than the dances, and a Reading Olympics blue-ribbon champion two years in a row. Books were my escape, my window to the outside world . I read about close friendships and romance, while never experiencing either directly myself. I used books to travel to foreign countries and different centuries, while simultaneously climbing into the heads of those both diabolical and villainous. I solved mysteries with Nancy Drew  and experienced the horrors of middle school with Amber Brown. I tamed horses in the Heartland series and discovered my inner princess with Mia Thermopolis.


But as I got older, the real-world experiences began happening to me. I experienced friendships both lost and gained, heartbreak, hope, happiness, disappointment, and excitement. I no longer needed books to keep my life interesting.


But that didn't matter. Just because I didn't need books didn't mean I didn't want them.


As an English major in college, I honed my knowledge of the classics while still exploring the wonderful world of fiction novels, where my true passion lies. I'm constantly reading, whether through prodding by a professor or because the new book I ordered from Borders Online finally arrived in the mail. There's nothing I'd rather do more than read.


Well, except write. I'm now a fiction writer myself, most likely due to my bookworm-ish early years. I write books because I want to read them. It's a continuous cycle. As I write my first novel, I still find time to bury my nose and imagination in the latest bestseller. This blog will be all about the books I've read, both good and bad. Ones that have touched me personally and ones that have inspired my own stories. Mixed in will be my own confessions, because as a diagnosed bookaholic, I know that the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.


Even if that problem is awesome.