At ten years old, I borrowed a book from the library that had the word“mistress”in the title. Granted, the cover art featured a golden carriage resembling that of Cinderella’s. My mother did not notice this book amid my stack of 20 until I was at home rea
I looked at her and stood motionless for a few seconds. Obviously, it was not the kind of book I was looking for. “It’s very different,” she said, noticing my disappointment.
I accepted her recommendation. I took the book home, curled up on our window seat, and started reading: “I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. I can’t say that I am really comfortable, but that is the only part of the kitchen where there is any daylig
I was hooked. Absolutely hooked. I wanted to be a writer, too. I also loved to write in strange places.
I never told the librarian how much that book meant to me. How it spurred my writing dreams to the point that I took journals when walking through the woods and paused to take notes. Two weeks ago, I drove to meet my mother for a Ch
I rose to my feet and moved excitedly toward her, “You work at the library! You once showed me I Capture the Castle! I’m a writer now! That’s still my favorite book!” The woman paused and smiled kindly, with a blank expression on he
As I watched her go, I wondered how many lives we change without realizing what we do is significant. For all that woman had really done was lend me a book. But it had captured my world. The mother immediately took away the book the