It hit me a few nights ago just how much I love everything about reading.
I love being asked for a book recommendation, then giving one I think is exactly right.
I love looking at my bookshelves and knowing every book on it, the story, the characters, the cover, the feelings when I finished.
I love sitting on my couch, covered with my green knit blanket, a cup of tea sitting on the table, and a good book propped up against my knees with some acoustic-y female pop music floating in the background.
I love the feeling of finishing a book, of sitting back and just letting all of it wash over me for a couple minutes in the quiet of my apartment on a cold winter evening.
I love the moment when I realize exactly what I want to say about this particular book, and what this book makes me want to say about books and reading and genres in general.
I love the feeling of possibility that happens when I finish a book, the feeling that anything could come next and that any book I pick up next could be a book that changes my life.
And I love knowing there’s a whole community of people out there, reading this, who know exactly what I’m talking about.