“If you take a book with you on a journey…an odd thing happens: The book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will all come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like, the ice cream you ate while you were reading it... yes, books are like flypaper—memories cling to the printed page better than anything else.”

—Cornelia Funke, Inkheart

I’m a reader. Always have been.

Unlike most reader characters in books, I don’t spend my afternoons perusing books on the eating patterns of strange, undersea creatures or how to pilot sailboats. I don’t even go in much for history.

I’m a novelist. Always have been.

I don’t remember my first book. When my mother was pregnant with me, my father used to read to her belly. I don’t remember a time before books. I do recall learning to read. It was awful. Awful, but so very worth it. My mother taught me.

Growing up, I traveled a lot. I went to Narnia, Middle Earth, Hogwarts, Neverland… I had dozens of friends and scores of adventures. "The Hobbit" taught me what dragons were when I was two years old. "The Dawn Treader" was my first sailing ship.

I watched these people and their stories, and faulted them when they failed to live up to my high standards. I cried with them and cheered for them. As I got older, I began to be the one failing to meet standards. I offered my apologies to Peter Pevensie and turned to Ender Wiggins for support. He understood impossible situations.

Over the course of several moves, nearly all of my books ended up in storage. I went years without seeing their spines, walking their paths, reacquainting myself with the friends of my childhood.

I missed them.

It was hardly the end of the world. I frequented libraries and used bookstores, sating my hunger and slowly building my library back to a single full bookcase. It was good…but I was lonely.

I didn’t realize how much until this weekend. My books are out of storage—all of them—and back on shelves where they belong.

They fill two rooms.

I have my worlds back and my friends, but it’s more than that. There are parts of me, pressed like flowers between those pages, that I haven’t seen in years.

Holes I didn’t know I had are filled. It feels like I’ve been holding my breath all this time, and I’ve only just let it out, and a tension I didn’t know I’d been carrying is gone.

I’m home. All of me.

What can I say?...I’m a reader. Always have been.

Which books hold your memories?