just maybe

I don’t know about you, but my life has been marked by books. Since the years of “Goodnight Moon” and Dr. Seuss, reading has been everything. I was the girl who got in trouble for reading under my desk in 4rd grade math class. Beth wasn’t complete without a book in hand. Quirky, nerdy, or otherwise, this was (is) me.

My childhood was shaped by the innocence of the Babysitter’s Club, and the curiosity of Nancy Drew. My middle school years from age 11 were charmed by the magical imagination of JK Rowling- effectively growing up alongside Harry and company. Salinger spoke to my angst-y, teenage soul in “Catcher in the Rye”. Then Ann Brashares taught me more about myself and my friends than I thought possible in the Sisterhood books. And so it goes…

There were literally hundreds of books between those mentioned. But I do feel like my life has been shaped by the characters and worlds contained in the pages of these books. Reading has been my only constant- my solace in times of sorrow, my peace in times of contentment… my connection to myself.

Why am I writing this now? I guess partially because I’ve never acknowledged this quite so frankly. And also, because today (while reading a book, of course), it hit me. I think I am supposed to be writing. Maybe it’s a pipe dream, or my true post-undergrad naivete coming out, but I think it just may be what I want to do.

So this is me saying, just maybe, I am going to try.