I’m late to everything. Usually just by five or ten minutes or so. (I once read that Hillary Rodham Clinton is always late, but only by 15 minutes. I thought, Huh, at least I’m in good company, because love her or hate her, the woman gets some shit done.) Other things I’m a bit more painfully late to, like beginning a career in healthcare in the 90s, just as insurance reimbursement for physicians started taking a swift kick to the balls, writing a chick lit book in 2004, just as that market was declared dead, or at least saturated, by some, and buying investment property in 2005 (suck-kah!).
So I’m late to this blogging thing too. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to blog or haven’t had anything to say. It’s not even that I’m a procrastinator, because I’m not. It’s simply taken me until now to get to it. Life happens. I’m busy. We’re all busy. We have to prioritize and not everything gets done. But as the old saying goes, better late than never, so here I am at last- woo hoo!
Why not start with my earliest memories of falling in love with books? Little Golden Books were probably the Sandra Boyntons of my generation, and the first books I remember having tons of and returning to over and over. But those were when I was very young and had a lot to do with my parents (thankfully) providing them. The first books I remember reading on my own were my fair share of Nancy Drews and a now seldom heard of series of Meg Duncan mysteries by Holly Beth Walker. Then there was Judy Blume. That’s when I discovered what it meant to devour anything someone writes, and telling your friends they have to read this. (Or better yet, reading Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret with your bestie in the closet by flashlight.) I also loved Paula Danziger (The Cat Ate My Gymsuit), Astrid Lindgren (Pippi Longstocking), Paul Zindel (The Pigman); gosh just writing these names makes me want to read them all over again.
The first devour-ees of my young adulthood were Sidney Sheldon and V.C. Andrews. I’d probably read Sidney Sheldon all over again now, but V.C. Andrews? That is some creepy shit that still haunts me, and I probably wouldn’t pick up much like that now. Loved it then, though, right down to all the incestuous C names of Flowers In The Attic, Christopher, Catherine, Carrie, Cory…shudder!
Ask me now what my favorite books are, or favorite authors, and I usually just answer with an uncomfortable squirm and an “I can’t!” Too many, too overwhelming, and always in flux. But fun to discuss, including where it all started so tell me, what books were your first loves? Leave a comment!