In the fourth grade, my family moved to Vegas from California, I was suddenly a new student in a completely new state. I wasn’t really at the time much of a reader, but one of the requirements for the fourth grade was to read a certain number of books per quarter and log them, and do either an essay, diorama, play, or something else I can’t remember about them. The first book I read that year, I distinctly remember was Holes. Of which I believe I created a diorama. Shortly thereafter I started on the Harry Potter series which changed my life forever, then moved onto A Series of Unfortunate Events while waiting for the last three books in the series to come out.
I love books. I love the way they smell, I love the way they can transfer you into other worlds and other lives, and for a moment make you forget where you are. It’s why I love writing, getting lost in a book in any capacity is magical, and at a time where distractions are many, being able to lose yourself in a book has become increasingly more difficult.
This is perhaps part of the reason why, in spite of my love for books, I don’t read as often as I’d like. I’m trying to do better this year, I want to be able to read more books this year than I have been the past few years, good or bad, it’s important for an author to read, and read often, and I know this, so I’m trying because I do love books. I’m just not very good at showing it sometimes.
The most important books in my life have shaped a very large part of who am I today, even up to and including my name. I am who I am because of these books and I’m happy for that. I can’t imagine what my life would be like if they didn’t exist, but I can’t help but wonder would I even be a writer? And what would my name have been? I think it’s a tossup between Meredith and Olivia or I guess I could have just been Meredith Olivia Deville. Shondaland for the win.