There are times when I feel rather like an obnoxious tourist in the land of literature, slowly learning the ways of the traveller.
Over the past year (and a half!) I’ve discovered books I wouldn’t previously have considered reading; books by authors I hadn’t heard of this time two years ago. I’ve revisited familiar stories, still warm with memories of my childhood. I’ve found new favourites that sit comfortably at the very core of my being, curled up like contented cats…
For me, reading has become an adventure. I never really know what’s going to happen next. It’s actually quite thrilling.
I’m completely aware that I’m not exactly doing this whole “life” thing terribly well. But reading these books, writing these words, makes me feel as if I might just be doing something right.