Every summer my mom would head to the library with three giant cloth bags. We would be told that we could only get ten books. Only ten. We would head home and disappear for days. The house would be silent for days. We would retreat to the sanctuary of our bedrooms and dive into the world of make believe.
I loved those memories. Tangled in fluffy blankets, books clutched in one hand and only coming up for air when we were done. I know it is those reading memories that made me so eager to write my own stories.