Picking a Book
I ran my hand along the spines of the books on my shelf. I had come into the room with the intention of grabbing one of my old books to read again. I was feeling nostalgic and wanted to relax with a book I knew already. Knew the beginning. The middle. The end. There were plenty of books on the shelf I'd read, I just couldn't seem to choose one. I moved my hand from one book to the next, reminding myself of the plot in each story, the characters, the problems. All of them sounded so good!
I guess my first thought should be what type of book I was in the mood to read. I had books from almost every genre, so no matter what type I was interested in, I should be able to find something...you would think. I sat down on the edge of the bed, eying the shelf. I had three shelves full of nothing but books; tall books, short books, big, thin, fat books. I had another shelf with a container full of jewelry and little knick knacks that didn't have a place on my table or jewelry box. Next to the container were two picture frames, one on each side. Both were of pictures of my niece and nephews, all from when they were little. I glanced at the pictures and smiled, one had my nephew wearing a sticker on his forehead saying "My aunt is awesome," and the other had my niece standing behind both my nephews, holding a bouquet of flowers from a dance recital she had just finished. I remembered both days well.
The top shelf held a few more pictures, a plastic elephant I'd bought at the zoo when I was little, big wooden letters I'd painted in college that spelled my name, and a few shoe boxes full of old letters and pictures from high school. All mementos I didn't especially need, but still cherished. They didn't have elephants at the zoo anymore, so you couldn't get a mold of them made anymore either. The letters I'd spend weeks painstakingly painting, some having tiny intricate little dots or designs on the sides. The shoe boxes had hundreds of seemingly silly and pointless letters, talking about how boring class was or how cute so and so was, but every time I opened a letter I was overwhelmed with such happy memories, I couldn't dare ever throw them away. Same with the photos.
I focused again on the shelves containing books. I'd decided I wanted to read one of my old romance novels. They were another memento in a way. My mom chose these books most of the time and I'd grown up with them. When I entered high school, they were my free time book of choice as well. All the books follow the same basic plot line: England in the 1800's, some tragedy occurs, someone always hates someone only to realize later they loved them, and there is always a happy ending. The happy ending is what I like. I like knowing before I start the book exactly what's going to happen and how it's going to end. Not all the time, not for all my books. But when I'm feeling nostalgic like this, it's something I look forward to.
I grabbed one of the books at random. The author was Eloisa James. Perfect. She was my favorite romance author and had about 100 books to her name, I owned at least half of them. I glanced at the back of the book mechanically. It didn't matter to me what the plot line was or who was in the story, but for some reason I still found myself glancing at the words. I smiled again, I knew this story, I knew these characters. I opened the book and began reading the first lines as I made my way back to the living room couch....
I guess my first thought should be what type of book I was in the mood to read. I had books from almost every genre, so no matter what type I was interested in, I should be able to find something...you would think. I sat down on the edge of the bed, eying the shelf. I had three shelves full of nothing but books; tall books, short books, big, thin, fat books. I had another shelf with a container full of jewelry and little knick knacks that didn't have a place on my table or jewelry box. Next to the container were two picture frames, one on each side. Both were of pictures of my niece and nephews, all from when they were little. I glanced at the pictures and smiled, one had my nephew wearing a sticker on his forehead saying "My aunt is awesome," and the other had my niece standing behind both my nephews, holding a bouquet of flowers from a dance recital she had just finished. I remembered both days well.
The top shelf held a few more pictures, a plastic elephant I'd bought at the zoo when I was little, big wooden letters I'd painted in college that spelled my name, and a few shoe boxes full of old letters and pictures from high school. All mementos I didn't especially need, but still cherished. They didn't have elephants at the zoo anymore, so you couldn't get a mold of them made anymore either. The letters I'd spend weeks painstakingly painting, some having tiny intricate little dots or designs on the sides. The shoe boxes had hundreds of seemingly silly and pointless letters, talking about how boring class was or how cute so and so was, but every time I opened a letter I was overwhelmed with such happy memories, I couldn't dare ever throw them away. Same with the photos.
I focused again on the shelves containing books. I'd decided I wanted to read one of my old romance novels. They were another memento in a way. My mom chose these books most of the time and I'd grown up with them. When I entered high school, they were my free time book of choice as well. All the books follow the same basic plot line: England in the 1800's, some tragedy occurs, someone always hates someone only to realize later they loved them, and there is always a happy ending. The happy ending is what I like. I like knowing before I start the book exactly what's going to happen and how it's going to end. Not all the time, not for all my books. But when I'm feeling nostalgic like this, it's something I look forward to.
I grabbed one of the books at random. The author was Eloisa James. Perfect. She was my favorite romance author and had about 100 books to her name, I owned at least half of them. I glanced at the back of the book mechanically. It didn't matter to me what the plot line was or who was in the story, but for some reason I still found myself glancing at the words. I smiled again, I knew this story, I knew these characters. I opened the book and began reading the first lines as I made my way back to the living room couch....
I envy you taking the time to read an old favorite. I am hoping to get back into my reading groove over the summer. Enjoy the story.
ReplyDeleteThere is something familiar in the pages of a known book, like coming home. Enjoy.
ReplyDelete