When I was a kid, my parents had amazingly vast bookshelves, and when I got bored on rainy days, I’d sometimes pull a book off the shelf. Often, I had absolutely no interest in what I found. I distinctly remember NOT reading Anthony Powell’s A Dance to the Music of Time.
But now and then, I’d find a book with scribbles in it, a book my mom or dad had written all over, and that I loved, no matter how dull the book. There was something magical about the old notes. I felt like I was traveling into the past, peering into the people my parents had been Once Upon a Time. When they were young.
Of course, eventually I ran to my own bookshelves and began scribbling on the pages. I wasn’t really sure what to write, but I wanted to leave a trace, a message to…
View original post 800 more words