In the hunt for my old Harry Potter books for my 10-year-old daughter, I discovered a lost treasure.
Long before I had kids, I had books.
Lots of them.
They went more places with me than my first husband. And then two thousand diapers, two kids, 4 houses, and a divorce later, I was digging through my past stuffed in large Home Depot bins for the J.K. Rowling series and discovered something I had long forgotten.
Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Terror.
A book from my childhood whose pages have become so yellowed that they are actually naturally cool, and so aged that the years had caused them to separate from its spine.
I loved my books.
I slept more peacefully surrounded by them. The feel of holding them was much more satisfying than any iPhone or Kindle.
And I spent a fortune on them.
Some people are addicted to shoe shopping or alcohol. The Book of the Month Club was my crack. I saw the UPS man so often, he knew my birthday. I would leave work early just so I could get there first to hide the latest shipment from my husband.
I had it bad.
As I dug through the stacks of fiction, nonfiction, and text books, the feeling of love I used to have resurfaced. In the dark cellar room, I was once again surrounded by my books.
And I remembered why I loved them so.
I realized at that moment that I was in the right place at this time. I was revisiting my passion. My kids were growing older, as was I, and my first love remained the same.
As I returned to the warmth of my living room, I sat and paged through the book of Poe’s short stories. I found it quite ironic that I discovered it while preparing my manuscript, The Poe Toaster, for publication. However, in my world, books have always been a huge part of who I was.
And I don’t believe in coincidences.