“Books are a form of magic—” the doctor lifted the volume he had just laid on the stack, “—because they span time and distance more surely than any spell or charm.”
― Tad Williams, The Dragonbone Chair

"Here are beauties which pierce like swords or burn like cold iron; here is a book that will break your heart... good beyond hope." - C.S. Lewis (on The Two Towers)

To all the authors who made me love books:

I don't know when it began. I know when it did not begin. I did not love reading when I was learning how to. I hated Green Eggs and Ham. I thought that book was going to be the death of me. I had particular trouble with the words “here” and “there”, if that helps you understand where I'm coming from.

I don't hate it now that I'm older and understand the wise words of Dr. Seuss. However, he did not convince me to love reading. I don't know what book did. Maybe it was Peter Pan, maybe it was listening to my father read The Hobbit and The Wind in the Willows.

I don't know when I started agreeing with Terry Pratchett's wise words “If you have enough book space, I don't want to talk to you.” Thankfully I never have enough book space. It keeps me humble, looking at all those words crammed in the nooks and crannies of my room.

I don't remember which chapter book I loved first. I know I read The Chronicles of Narnia at some point and loved them, and when I was nine I started reading Harry Potter (I was lucky enough to still be part of the generation of people who had to wait for the seventh book to release – that was a fabulous day). But it wasn't those books, or any of the books I read after, although I have loved them all, that made me love reading. It was something else.

My life has become a collection of stories and words I can no longer recall, but I hold to them desperately. Parts of me lay gathering dust on the shelves. I can't even remember some of those parts, but they make me who I am. I love reading.

I love stories. I love the idea of adventures, of good overpowering evil, of beauty and love, of magic.

I look around my room and see a library – stories just waiting for their pages to turn, to lead me into a whole different world, to let me escape and breathe new life in them. Reading is a way of being set free.

Reading is the ability to fly, it is fresh air and hope, it is a sunset of smashed lives – mixing all that is good and bad, ugly and beautiful and true. Reading is a reminder of our humanity. Like William Nicholson said, “We read to know we are not alone.”

I cannot tell you of any other thing that has so often filled me with hope, love, and joy. I cannot begin to describe the things that I have learned, the words I have woven into my very soul, the stories that I keep close to my heart simply because if I did not I would break.

These books have wrought joy and pain in my heart; these authors have wounded me deeply; these words cut like swords in my soul, but I would not change it, for where would I be without these stories in my heart, a safe and sweet place for me to hide?

“Joy is to fun what the deep sea is to a puddle. It’s a feeling inside that can hardly be contained.”
― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky

To me, reading is like going home. Like this simple scene from The Wind in the Willows - “And when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea."

And these books in turn, that have placed their territorial marks on my heart, have inspired me to try on my own. Sometimes I feel they mock me, but when I think of the impact they have had on me, I cannot help but try to honor that.

Writing brings me a different, less wild sense of joy. It does not comfort me – writing scares me. But I want my writing to comfort someone else. Because I cannot thank in person the authors who have inspired and comforted me, I will try to emulate their example.

So thank you Terry Pratchett, for teaching me that "all the gods are bastards" and that Death likes cats.

Thank you J.R.R. Tolkien, for taking me to my roots, for becoming a constant inspiration, for teaching me about courage and beauty.

C.S. Lewis, I have read The Horse and His Boy at least ten times and listened to it so much it is forever memorized in my brain. Thank you for your words, your worlds, which have molded and shaped my own since I was six years old.

Thank you, J.K. Rowling, for without your seven wonderful books I never would have started writing my own.

Thank you Marcus Zusak for breaking my heart, and teaching me that people are beautiful because of what they are.

Thank you Charles Dickens. You were the first author to ever make me cry.

Thank you Jeannine Birdsall, for writing the books I have grown up with. You were the first to make me sob.

And thank you Elizabeth Peters, Jeffery Overstreet and Tad Williams, Lois Lowry, Robin McKinley, Helene Wecker, Stephen Lawhead and Kate DiCamillo. Thank you. You have made my world a better place. As Overstreet himself said, “I would set you like a flower in a vase, to let you burn as long as you are able.”

All my love,

a reader.