I still remember one of the first books I read myself. It had a tan cover, and featured two children playing outside until they had to come in for dinner. I remember ‘dinner’ because I was reading it out loud and pronounced it ‘diner’.
My grandfather tells a story about when I was about three years old and I read the newspaper to him. That’s how he knew that I was actually reading and not just memorizing previously-heard stories.
I haven’t stopped since.
My ideal job would be to read books, all kinds of books, as much and as often as possible. Unfortunately those jobs are few and far between. They’re often freelance, and they probably wouldn’t pay enough to keep me living abroad and buying books for the rest of my life.
Reading is not the only thing I’m interested in, though. If you want to know more about my innermost thoughts, presented to the outermost world, I have a more introspective and less dedicated blog at mendramarie.blogspot.com.
Any books that I read here are ones that I either obtained myself (from a bookseller’s, charity shop, or library) or received from friends as personal gifts.