In this selfie, book-y Tie o’ the Day displays the shelves its library. Honestly, there are material objects I value more than my ties and bow ties, and those things are undoubtedly books. More specifically, I have a truly-madly-deeply, beyond-reason kind of love for reading books. Books have always been a bigly part of my life, and not just as a reader. Because they have been so omnipresent throughout the whole of my life, I blame books for everything—for allowing me to survive every wild mis-step and humble triumph in my life. I also blame books for making me a writer.
I remember writing my first “book” when I was in 2nd grade, on half-sheets of blue-lined notebook paper which I meticulously “bound” with Scotch tape after I had completed writing my “manuscript.” I wrote the book in memory of my dog, Dum Dum, who had recently died. If I’m remembering correctly, one page of the book was simply empty space surrounding a solitary riddle in the center of the page. The touching riddle went something like this: What’s furry, and short, and yellow, and has a tail, and has only one eye, and died? Answer: Dum Dum. I worked dang kid-hard to make up that detailed riddle. It was worth all the effort my seven-year-old self could muster, because I was writing a “real” book. Bound together with Scotch tape.
I hope I run onto my first book one day soon. I know I would never have thrown away such a career-beginning piece of literature, so it’s got to be around here somewhere—even though I haven’t seen it for years. I’m sure I stuck it in a file folder, so it’s safe, wherever it is. Who could have known that a mere six years after I penciled that “book” about my dead dog, I would sell my first poem—for $7.00, to The New Era magazine? But I did. And reading—as much as the actual writing itself—is indubitably to blame. I make no apologies about it. To paraphrase Shakespeare, by way of ROMEO AND JULIET: If reading be my sin, give me my sin again! 📝 📖 📚
BTW Shakespeare’s plays are—and have been throughout history—often included on lists of books busybodies want to ban. Why, you ask, would anyone be threatened by those wonderful plays? Well, my theory is simple: the plays speak some uncomfortable truths and complexities about our all-too human existence, and some people—particularly those people who have never actually read or seen the plays—have a problem with facing reality. And why do some people have a problem with facing reality? Because it’s real. 🎭