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I spent my childhood with my nose buried in a book. On most nights, my mother would tell me a story before I went to bed. If I ever have a child, I would want to raise them with the same love of reading.

I can’t tell you how many hours I kept myself entertained, sprawled on the ground, totally enveloped in whatever imagined world I was currently enthralled with. I was an only child for the first 6.5 years of my life and, even through into my teens, you would find me alone in my room reading, writing or making up my own stories from the strangest of books. Mum had a book of 1000 household ‘hacks’ or something like that and I would go through each and make up a story about why someone would need to use each of them. Yes, I was often a solitary child. šŸ™‚

I think this would have to be one of the healthiest past times for a child. Sure, you don’t want your kid reading 24/7 with no friends, but a child who reads develops a keen imagination, a wider vocabulary, learns to think and ponder and generally has their world opened up to the possibility of other ways of being. Of course, it depends what they’re reading…

I’ve recently opened my first ‘by choice’ book in about seven months. The previous book was read on borrowed time, every moment stolen from what I should’ve been doing. But THIS book. This book I am truly luxuriating in. Letting my fingers enjoy the scratch of the paper, the crease of the spine. If it had that old book smell, the world would be perfect. Alas, it is a new book purchased from a genuine hard-copy book store but I love it nonetheless.

I love how it transports me to its conjured up world every time I open its pages. Being Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, the world I am transported to is quite bleak but it is beautiful nonetheless. You have to find beauty in the way another person’s mind can createĀ a place so real and touching that they make you worry and feel for these characters that don’t exist.