I have to admit the smell of a book is one of my most favorite things in the universe. I still remember wondering through our giant public library as a child and finding that perfect book. Climbing up into the car with my newly checked out book in my hand, I couldn’t wait to get home to open it. Garage door would open, the seatbelt would snap off, and I’d be shooting through the door and onto the couch. I would pull open the cover and the smell of paper and adventure overwhelmed my senses. It is not just the smell that captured me, but also the feel of a new book, never been read, in my hands. The story that awaits me, promising never before imagined excitement, a new tale. The truth is, there is nothing new under the sun. Every story is just a re-telling of the same ancient content that has been handed down since early days of mankind. Yet, the setting and the adjectives, the unexpected twists and turns of a re-imagined hero’s tale, is enough to send a quiver of expectation down my waiting spine. It doesn’t seem to matter that I can predict who the killer is, when the heroine will end up with the right man, or what the thief actually stole when prying in the secret desk drawer. It simply doesn’t matter because, yes, it is true, ladies and gentlemen, I’m a bookaholic. Let me rephrase that. “Hello, I’m Melissa, and I’m addicted to books. It’s been twenty-three minutes since my last sniff/touch/read.”
