I can read six books in a month, and go without smelling one for a year. I am capricious that way. But, I know that books are kind. They are the most loyal friends. Ignore them, abandon them, and come back with no trace of regret. Even then, they will let you into their magical chambers. And hear no complaints!
Reading was not a part of my childhood. I watched TV. From soaps to movies, everything that the idiot box showed, I consumed. Adolescence was filled with things that don’t make me proud.
During my early twenties, a kind soul lent me his Tell Me Your Dreams. A few pages into the book, I realised I had discovered the joy of reading, and my love for words. (Ouch, am I confessing? Are you judging me?) 🙂
The precious habit had to be reinforced. Hence, I befriended Dan Brown, Sidney Sheldon among many other authors, who fuelled my passion, when the flame flickered. Their books might not have taught me great lessons. But, they strengthened my relationship with my newly-found love then.
Then came the daunting lists: Modern Library’s 100 Best Novels, Time Magazine’s All-Time 100 Novels, BBC’s The Big Read… I could fare a bit, and draw immense pleasure from reading Rand and Nabokov and Orwell and Hemingway… And, there was always time for RK Narayan and Rowling and Murakami and Wodehouse. Also for those adorable little children’s books.
It’s been a decade, since a book revealed itself to me. And, now, it appears that I have finally got the chutzpah to pen my thoughts on books. Today, I vow to earnestly try writing about the books that I am going to read.
However, I must warn you, my dear reader. The pedestrian articles might unnerve you. But, there is nothing more you may expect from a self-professed writer, who has chosen to write for… herself.
Thank you for stopping by!