Today, I’d like to share a story with you of a time when I committed an egregious faux pas for a writer and self-proclaimed bibliophile. A time when I disparaged the gift of a book. Let me set the scene.
It was Christmas, 1980—something. I can’t recall exactly, but I was maybe ten or eleven, an age at which the only gifts worth getting were shiny, plastic, often noisy, and found in the pages of the Sears Wish Book.Continue reading