July 17, 2008
I love books. Call me what you will, but I love them, the spine, and the pages. Filling my bookshelf. Hardback, paperback, I don't discriminate. I'm a sucker for an attractive cover but I'm not a cover whore. I still read what they're about before taking them to the counter. Barnes and Noble is my candy store. I see shelves and shelves of information that I want to digest. Who has the time? How can I read them all, and when? Memoirs are my favorite, maybe because I had been writing my own for so long without knowing. Subconscious research. Heavy. Fiction is nice, but I want the real deal. Someone pouring him or her into something and coming out changed. I like to get into other people's worlds. Sometimes I like it to be something that relates to me, other times I want to be a part of something I'd never experience. Real experiences have always been intriguing to me. If a movie trailer starts with "based on true events" my ears perk up. I'm immediately interested in something that really went down. I'm sure it takes talent to imagine events and feelings. I certainly don't have that talent.