I met a young girl yesterday and she told me that her favorite thing to do was read.  I told her that the best job in the world would be one in which I got to sit in a big chair and read all day.  She responded, “I know, right?”  Forty years separated us but in that moment, we were the same person: a book lover.  We exchanged knowing smiles before I returned her to her fourth-grade classroom.  When I was her age, I read everything I could.  I used every earned penny to buy the next book in the Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden series.  I lived in those books; they meant everything to me.  Once, my parents heard me talking in my sleep.  I was apparently dreaming about searching for a book.  They decided that I was reading too much—-my God, is there such a thing?—-and told me that I needed to take a break from reading.  I still remember my absolute melt-down.  With wide eyes, my parents rescinded their suggestion.  They probably assumed that I was too far gone and there was no getting their daughter back.  Even into adulthood, my favorite place to be is anywhere, as long as there is a book in my hand.  One of my fantasies has always been getting stuck in a library during a ferocious storm and being told that I have to stay put all night.  I love books.  I love reading books, I love writing books.  I love talking about books.  I love going to movies based on books and then saying, ‘It’s not as good as the book.”  That little girl and I know where all the cool kids hang out…in the pages of books.