To all the books I’ll never read, I hope you’ll accept this letter of apology.
It’s not that I don’t think you’re beautiful. I do think you’re beautiful. The way your covers shine and glint in the light is gorgeous. The way your title sprawls across your spine is awe-inspiring.
It’s not that I think you’re gross. You’re not gross. Your pages splay out like a newly opened lily. They waft the fragrant perfume of ink and paper, of dust and memories and creativity. You permeate the room with hope and power and frenzy and love. I love that smell more than you’ll ever know.
It’s not that I don’t think you’re smart. You hold the wisdom of a thousand lifetimes. You hold the collective consciousness of our entire history. You hold the stories of the past and the wisdom for the future. You show us who we are and who we were and who we could be. Your pages hold words I’ll never say and sights I’ll never see.
It’s not that I don’t think you’re interesting. You are so interesting. You tell more stories than I could ever dream of. You tell stories of actual histories of actual people who did amazing, unbelievable things. You tell stories of things that have been and could be and should be and should never be. You tell myths and fables and fairy tales. You tell stories about real life and inspired by real life. You keep me entertained and energized.
In fact, dear books, it’s not you. It’s me.
I’ll never have the time to read all of you. I want to. I promise I do. I’m just slow. And you’re so daunting. And you’re beautiful in your breadth and your depth. And you’re intimidating in your scope. You’re amazing. You’re frightful. And I love you.
The Plucky Reader