True Love
My first love was a word, or two, or ten, all wrapped up in a cardboard cover and decorated with pictures inside and out. It was a book my parents read to me and then I learned to read myself. I don't remember which book it was, and that doesn't really matter. What does matter is that it was the first of many, many stories I encountered over my lifetime.
I am a monogamist in that I love reading, pure and simple. I love nothing else with the same depth or breadth as I do the printed word. I know what I like, and I read a lot of it. I do have dalliances, though, as I stray from my primary genre of science fiction to other genres, testing out the connections with mysteries, drama, romantic suspense. Maybe I'm best described as a serial monogamist, in that I have a favorite book and read it over and over, savoring the deliciousness of the language, but then I find another book and go through the process all over again.
Love can't be contained, though, nor should it. I revere the beauty of language, and reading has brought me to my love of writing, my need to express myself through the same words I found within the books' covers, and others I discovered elsewhere along the way. I also teach, to share my love with others struggling to find their way in the world of words. To be separated from my love would be akin to cutting away a part of myself. It is to my parents I must look to and thank for giving me a loving gift that could and has lasted me my entire life. Muchas gracias, mis padres. Se amo por este gran regalo.