I have a long love affair with books. With stories. With words. Longer even than my love affair with drawing, but only by a year or two.
My husband knows about this affair. How can he not? He helped me pack 55 boxes of books last time we moved. The back wall of our suite is all shelves of books, two rows deep. I’ve probably added three more boxes since we moved in two years ago. That makes the current total 58.
This love affair, in other eyes, looks like an obsession. Or maybe a difficulty with hoarding.
Only someone who does not love books would think that.
My parents read to me when I was two years old. A story before bedtime. Thus begins the love affair and my book collection.