There’s something special about reading a new book. A brand, new book, I mean. One that no one’s ever read before. Makes you first, first to bend back that cover, crease open the first page, and, at the end, turn back that final, stiff back page.
I don’t read a lot of new books. Yep, I’m a library girl. I borrow books that a hundred eager, smudy hands have flicked through, devouring words the long before me. Sometimes, I get that longing for a new book, a book all my own (well, not that I have to keep it, just that I have to be the first to read it).
And you know what? Sometimes I do get that special priveledge. Even if I’m a library girl.
Birthdays. A thick book behind the sparkly birthday bag, with fresh white pages that no one’s ever turned all the way to the end.
Reservations at the library. Sometimes, it is true, you get to be the first one to read the book.
But the best of all? Walking into a bookshop, choosing and taking home all for yourself.
Keep in mind I’m a fictional writer. Everythign I think, say and…well, write, usually ends up somewhat “unreal”. I don’t remember buying a new book. But I get that feeling, everytime I walk into a bookshop, that if I picked one and paid and walked out, it would be the best feeling ever. A new book and I’d get to keep it. That doesn’t discount birthdays or surprise gifts (they’re almost better sometimes because…they’re a surprise!) But choosing, buying, taking home…
There’s something special about reading a new book. It’s as if you’re the first one to open up that world and devour it. It’s as if the author has just finished wirting it and hands it to you.
“Okay, gobble it up. Tell me what you think. All yours.”