Memoirs of a Bookworm

It seemed like some sick reality show challenge: You're let loose in Barnes + Noble for an hour, and you're allowed to pick out two to three books to be bought for you.

My reaction: A combination of YAY and OMG.

Here's why:

Counting the number of books I have is an infinite task - there's no doubt that I own at least 100, all of which I have read at least twice. I also rummage through my mother, sister, and father's book collections when I am looking for new material. Yes, ladies and gentleman, I am a bona fide bookworm. I'm at my happiest when I'm listening to music and reading a good book, sitting outside enjoying the sunshine and reading a good book, or just chilling in my living room and reading a good book. So, after my mother watched me read parts of "Hard Love" [by Ellen Wittlinger] for about the 187th time tonight, she said that if I drove her to PetSmart for cat food, she'd take me to Barnes + Noble for some new material.

Well, of course I was ecstatic. Letting someone like me loose in a bookstore - even if for an hour [or, a little more, as it turned out] - is like letting a heroin addict use heroin after being clean. It's an exhilarating rush - thousands of beautiful, unread books lie before me. I instantly get happy, but not soon after, a look of intense concentration comes over me as I prowl the aisles like a hunter stalking my prey. I usually don't even know where to start. Tonight, I headed back to the Fiction + Literature section, which is too vast for me without a goal, but also fun for some aimless wandering. After my aimlessness was over, I found myself drawn to the Sci-Fi + Fantasy section, just to price the beloved J.R.R. Tolkien "Lord of the Rings" series. And, although these four books weren't my purchase of the evening, I'll get around to them soon enough.

At this point, I was in a sticky situation. I only had about forty minutes of browsing time left, and I knew I'd be pushing it, as I always was in bookstores. So, I headed to the front of the store, to the bargain section. The bargain section always depresses me in some way - it's sort of like the SPCA of the bookstore. It's books that no one else really wants, so they're marked down and shown off, so hopefully someone will rescue them from their sad existence. It was here that I found tonight's treasures. I probably looked like I had some weird form of OCD - walking up and down the aisles multiple times, scanning the shelves from top to bottom. However, after some serious browsing - and several "Hurry your ass up" looks from my mother, I found my prizes. "The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets" by Eva Rice, and "Forgive Me" by Amanda Eyre Ward. Both unknown authors to me, and unknown books as well. And, of course, I cannot wait to devour them both - such is my project for tomorrow to start "Forgive Me".

So why am I such a bookworm? What is it about books that drag me in?

I've always lost myself in books. I remember reading at a young age - somewhere around three or four, and I was always reading far beyond my reading level. We took a test in seventh grade, and it showed that I was reading beyond a twelfth grade reading level. The complexities of books captivate me everytime, and there has never been a book that I have truly hated - though some of them [and here I am alluding to most of the books I had to read in Advanced Placement English Literature and Composition] I could have done without.

Books have helped me grow as a person. The stories I have learned help me to understand life and people better. They have caused as much self-examination as the examination of the story and the characters lives. Books are beautiful. They are an extension of the person that has written them. They are stories shown to the world by a brave soul. And the possibilities they provide are endless.

Reading as avidly as I have has also helped me grow as a writer. It is no secret that I am an aspiring novelist, and with every book I read - no matter how silly it is [yes, even as silly as Carlin's "When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?"] - I feel as though I learn one more secret to succeeding as an author.

So, some may find it "nerdy" to be able to spend 6 or 8 hours in a bookstore. But it's my idea of a good day. And when I get out of that store - with new novels and a slight headache due to staring at all that print - I know I will be happy, at least for a little while.

Aren't we all striving for happiness anyway?

A sincere bookworm,
Kerry