Did you just call me a bookworm?

Last week, I posted photos of my dream reading room. Today, the daily post’s writing challenge is “A ¬†genie has granted your wish to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?” Weird coincidence. It’s like they read my mind. Or maybe my blog post.

My perfect reading space would be in an attic. Not a musty, dusty, scary attic. No, a light, airy, lofty space with windows in the sloping roof. The floor would be creaky, the walls white and covered in bookshelves. There would be a fireplace or a wood stove for chilly winter days. In the center of the room, there is one chaise longue, preferably pink. Really, my reading bubble would have all my books in one place and it would be all mine, secret and special.

Right now, I have books everywhere. That works too. I love books, not just reading. They’re my decor. They are me and I am them. They’re taking over, and I’m letting them.







Yes, that is a My Little Poney. She’s mine, so I guess you could say she’s vintage, because she’s kind of old now. Her name is Apple Jacks.

I enjoy buying books almost as much as I do reading them. Sometimes, I buy more than I can read. Right now, I have a few books in my to read pile. Ok, more than a few. This is just a fraction of them. People give me books too, so it’s not all my fault. Well, ok, mostly it’s my fault.


The title of this post is something I said to my friend Jen not too long ago. Her reply? No, but I wish I did! It’s ok, I know I am.