I always love bringing home a new book. Always.
There is something about the crisp pages, the unbroken binding, the promise of a captivating story and poetic writing.
When it’s a book by a favourite author, it’s even better.
And when the book has been purchased for you by your nine-year old daughter, it’s a precious gift.
I love to make lists. Apparently, I always have, because I found this in that old binder, too.
It organizes my day, my life in tasks. Motivates me to get things done. Inspires me to create. It is a visual reminder of what I would like to do and what I have done.
Finding this childhood list brought a smile to my face.
I still make those little boxes to check off, sometimes. I just don’t colour them in.
Blue typewriter, found at a yard sale by my mother-in-law many years past. How many stories were tapped out on its keys?
I love its retro colour and its potential for fun photo compositions.
As a teacher, the thing I have always loved most was reading stories to the students.
I am on leave this year, but have done a few days here and there as a substitute. While I don’t miss the hectic schedule, I always enjoy those few moments when stories come alive. They take us to another world for a minute. Stories let us travel to places unseen, meet unique people, and engage our imaginations.
Maybe that is why I am so determined to write one…
I’ve never much been one for bedtime stories.
By the time bedtime arrived, especially when my kids were small, reading a book was more of a chore than a sweet nighttime routine. I was always exhausted and as ready for bed as they were.
Besides, reading books in our house always meant questions. My children engage in books – and for that I am grateful – but this has never allowed for a quiet story before sleep.
Earlier in the day though, I am happy to read. With children now aged 8 and 10, I am incredibly thankful that they still enjoy having an occasional book read to them.
Plus now, they sometimes read them to me.
This is where my stories and poems live.
I create them on the computer, but I keep them in a notebook. In black ink, I hand-write each one, then place the journal on my shelf with all my other books.
This way, I can’t lose them with a computer breakdown or a lost USB. They are organized and (sort of) published. This way, I make them a part of my book collection and I give them value.
I love to write. And I love books.
This way, I get both.