For as long as I can remember, I have loved books. 

When I was a child, my mother would read to us on the love seat in our living room, or she would sit on my bedroom floor, her back against the bed, reading bedtime stories aloud. 

I did the same thing with my kids, and I even read them some of the same books my mother read to me. 

Most memorable was The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, by C. S. Lewis. 

She read the first couple of Narnia books aloud, and then I had to learn to read entire books myself in order to get the rest of the story. 

Much later, I went to college in Grand Rapids, Michigan, home of Eerdman’s, the publisher of Lewis’ books in the United States.  Their bookstore sold imperfect printings at up to 90% off retail prices, and I collected everything I could find by him. 

Through Lewis, I was introduced to George MacDonald, Charles Williams, Madeleine L’Engle, J. R. R. Tolkien and others who lit a passion in me for storytelling. 

There was another bookstore not far from campus where I bought several books which I still have, and still love today. The Little Prince and The Velveteen Rabbit among them. 

I read to my friends, I read to cabins full of campers during those summers. Now I read to anyone who will listen… To the annoyance of some. A friend told me this week that I am too much in love with the sound of my own voice. He prefers to read silently to himself. Sigh. I understand, but it leaves me out of the experience. 

Ok. So I need to choose my audience more carefully, or let my audience choose me. 

Hearing David Sedaris read his own work adds so much to his wonderful stories, don’t you think?

The last couple of years, the bookstore in my town has invited me to come and read at their shop during the full moon in the summer months.  When the weather allows it, we sit around a fire within sight of Lake Superior, and I read some of my favorite passages by some of my favorite authors, and sneak some of my own writing in, too.