Books are Magic

The other day I was shopping hiding basking in the smell of books at Barnes and Noble as I proudly pounded away at the keyboard when I saw it – and no, it wasn’t my book – although how freaking awesome would that be? It was, however, a small child with enough crazy red curly hair to knit a blanket. You’ve seen Brave right – it was just like that. She bounced and ran and played in the children’s section and I just watched her, because that is what I do – I watch people. And there was something about this girl that just called to me, and I probably freaked her parents out a bit.

It wasn’t the way she giggled, it wasn’t the way her hair bounced, it wasn’t the crazy bright white smile, it was the way her hands moved. Her fingers fluttered over the covers and spines of the books, never touching, almost worshiping the hard bound wonders of the world. The way her fingers moved it was like she was breathing in the words, letting the pictures fill her mind and ignite her imagination.

She ran her fingers over them until she picked just the right book and picked it up weighing it in her hands, cracking open the cover and savored the story that was inside.

She reminded me of how I was at her age. How every book was a looking glass that led me not only to Wonderland, but Narnia, and outer-space, and schools built the wrong way, and magical lands.

That’s what books are. Books are magic.

It’s why I love reading them, and why I am obsessed with writing them. I love to go to those other worlds, I love to smell the smells, and experience things that I wouldn’t have a chance to otherwise.

And I love to share them.

I love to touch the spines, and run my fingers over pictures. I love to close my eyes and see the world.

I hope that little girl never looses that magic, that imagination.

I never did, and I think my life is better because of it.