I love books! And their kinsmen–paper and ink.
Favorite places are bookstores with their intoxicating scent of ink and new paper, shelves lost into the multitudes of categories. Will it be science, history, archaeology, biography? What about romance, erotica, suspense, adventure, science fiction?
I’ve spent hours roaming stationery stores, their shelves burdened with exotic papers, carbon, and onionskin, and equally fascinating inks, pens, and folders. Oh, the white page, virginal yet ripe with promise. Oh, the fine point of black ink–my hand quivers in anticipation. Bound journals, calendars, desk pads…
And libraries, rows and rows of books fading off into the dim distance.
And used bookstores with their peculiar odor, part must part ink, doubly promising with content and the peculiarities of their era. Perhaps notes scribbled in the margins.
What joy to take my place in the long line of those who have put words to the page, however humble my place might be. I’m here.