Books, glorious books! The very act of holding one and transmitting its words into my brain, whether I disagree with them, don’t fully understand their concepts, and am uncomfortable with the emotions they evoke — they always make me come away smarter and more sensitive. So much so, that I’ve written some books of my own (click here for info on the three novels I’m seeking representation for by a great literary agent).
It’s Banned Books Week here in the United States — oh, the shame of our increasing number of groups pumping politicians harder than ever to censor what books line the shelves of our libraries.
Conservatives maintain that everyone, especially our youth, needs protection — but from what? Is it really that damaging to see the antics of Where’s Waldo’s friends? And is it truly possible for anyone to not come away a better person for having read To Kill a Mockingbird? Reading, unlike watching and consuming, requires thinking.
Books helped me thrive in, not just survive, a continually gaslit childhood. Everything I felt or thought was deemed incorrect, and the family culture was, “don’t ever be too joyful, giddy, or silly. Disappointment is inevitable and dreaming makes it hurt worse.” At 11-years-old, when I stumbled onto my mom‘s collection of Marquis de Sade’s short…
