
Reading books, novels in particular, is my ocean.
I’ve heard people call their morning ocean swim the most important thing they do all day. It’s healing, connects them to something bigger than themselves and gives them strength to face the world.
That’s me with a book.
I read my first proper book when I was in Year One. I’m talking no pictures, novel, hardback. I was the youngest child in my family and I had seen everyone else at home read books and was desperate to do the same. I have no idea what the book was about, then or now, but I remember sitting on a cream couch upstairs in always muggy Brisbane reading. Mum and dad would walk past letting me be. My brothers would throw things at my head. I was on a mission. I was so proud of myself even if I was only reading the words but hadn’t yet worked out what a storyline was.
I felt special with a book in my hand. I could go places. I could experience things I never imagined I would. My mind and my body were hit. I had the breath stolen from me when reading the most vivid or beautiful sentence. My heart stopped when a character betrayed me. I calculated plotline possibilities. I felt comforted, angry, upset, joyful, expanded.
In really good books I would read and then re-read passages.
I thought that was just me.
How did they write that?
I want to dive in and save you.
I want to dive in and hit you.
When I love a sentence, or a phrase, I fold the bottom of the page so I can go back at the end of the book and read it again.
Years and years ago I started a book club. I tell my children to read. I think a house without a bookshelf lacks a soul.