An Open Letter to All the Books I’ll Read this Year

To all the books I’ll read this year,

Hey, you. Yes, you, with that sexy book spine of yours. I’ve been watching you. Creepy it may sound, but it’s true. Perhaps I’ve been watching you for a year, perhaps I spotted you from across the aisle, but either way, you’re looking damn fine. And you smell fantastic, too. I just might take you home tonight.

You’ve got all kinds of secrets hidden under that cover jacket of yours; entire worlds I can just dive into. Something fantastical or gritty or tragic or epic; I’m going to meet new people, new personalities, and I might even scoop up another book boyfriend. You never know. Either way, I’m going to be carted off into another dimension. You might make me cry, you might make my heart pound, you might even make me scream. The things I’m going to discover between your pages is going to be special, inspiring.

But wait, let’s not be too rash or too crude. Someone’s taken a lot of time to craft you. You were born, just barely a plot of a character in the brilliant pockets of their mind, and you grew, you blossomed. You took form in ways they never could have imagined, expanding until you were this great and glorious idea that they couldn’t help but love. And somebody else loved you too, and they took a chance on you, made a decision on you that probably made your creator ecstatic, wildly happy and proud – and they should be. You’re a work of art.

So when I take you home tonight, I’ll be gentle, soft, and considerate, knowing that I hold someone’s brain baby in my hands, that they’re anxious for me to love it the same way they love it.

I hope I do.

 

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