Guilty as charged. I’m a serial reader. Seriously serial. I read several books a week, mostly novels, with a few biographies and the occasional mystery thrown in for good measure. For as long as I can remember, reading has been a passion.

If I could have any gift in the world for my birthday, let’s say, I’d ask for a gift card to Barnes & Noble. And if the offer were from a genie, I’d ask for a lifetime supply of books (ok, I wouldn’t use all three wishes up on books, but one for sure).

I can get so wrapped up in a book that you won’t hear from me for hours. Like the time B. and I were getting ready  to go to a movie and he thought I was waiting for him outside, ready to leave. He locked the front door and was about to go — until he realized that I was still inside. Reading. And completely oblivious.

The library is like the mother ship calling me home. I can spend hours browsing, doing a little end-zone dance when a book I’ve been coveting is there on the New Book shelves. And our library’s used-book store. I can bring home a tiny treasure trove each week for less than three dollars. And I do.

I’m not one of those book snobs who says she’ll never buy an e-reader. But I’m not ready yet. As a writer, I’m most at home around bookshelves filled with volumes stored horizontally, vertically, and however they can fit. I’m still in love with the idea of opening a real book, turning real pages, picking it up and putting it down as necessary, and falling asleep with my glasses askew, my book fallen open, and B. gently and carefully putting it all on my nightstand, turning out the light, and kissing me goodnight. There are some rituals too sweet to make electronic.

Go ahead. Call me a bookworm.

I’ll call you back once I finish this chapter.

© 2013 Claudia Grossman