inkheart

I can easily recall the innumerable hours in which I spent reading as a child. As a young girl who did not know enough about the world or the people within it to make friends, books were my comfort, my solitude. I would read under the covers in my bed until I could hardly keep my eyes open. I would read as I was riding in the back seat of the car, too caught up in the wild adventures in my head to notice the carsickness; I would read in my childhood playroom, leaning against the large window, rain or shine; I couldn't even keep my eyes off of my book as I was walking down the halls of school or, in the mall, or at the movies.