I recently discovered that shelfies are a thing. Some definitions say that a shelfie is a picture of your bookshelf. A recent Mashable article described them as a photo of yourself with your bookshelf — book spines legible.
Shelfies must be the best trend ever. Tweet me your shelfie? @weavinggold Or, share a link to your Goodreads favorites page in the comments. I’d love to take a peak at your bookshelf. #RevealYourself
Some of my favorites live on my Kindle.
For my first writing assignment in high school, the English teacher instructed our class to “write a 200-word essay about something that’s important to you. And I don’t want to read thirty essays about how important your family is to you, so write about something else.” The teacher typed and mimeographed (can you smell the purple ink?) some of the gems we produced. Here’s what I wrote.
It all began the summer of 1980. I had completed fifth grade, and was enjoying a long-awaited vacation, until my mother got them. My mother proceeded to present them to me. Immediately, I became hopelessly addicted.
My early curfew would bring me home, and I’d rush to be with my newest companions. I’d become so involved with them that all else would be forgotten. Together, we would stay up late each night and be happy, sad, frightened or surprised. We’d laugh, cry, or shiver with suspense. We could go anywhere we wished, and return home, the venture over.
As I grew older, my friends became sources of refuge. Old chums, eager to renew our acquaintances, were always there when needed. They constantly introduced me to more of their kind, always willing to share my joys, sorrows, my happiness and anger.
They have faithfully stood by me until now. I hope that they will help me battle every obstacle so I can reach the summit of my dreams and aspirations. Together we will overcome all that stands in my way.
All of my companions may someday desert me, but they will remain loyal always. Books and I will be friends forever.
When I was young, I did not understand why anyone read non-fiction. I saw fiction as a doorway to adventure, fantasy, and romance, while I viewed non-fiction as boring. When I was pregnant and parenting, I read only non-fiction. I needed directions, and later self-help. Now, my children are 10, 13 and 15, and I think I’ve achieved some parenting competence , or, at least, peace with parenting, and I’m reading fiction again. I’m visiting imaginary worlds. I’m writing. Life is good.
If you would like to see what I read, visit me on goodreads.
Weaving Gold 