Bookworm in the City

How does one become a bookworm? This is my story.

The first books I remember being read, are the Miffy books. We had several of them and my mom knew them by heart and would tell them while cooking and doing the dishes. My siblings and I would sit at the kitchen table and got to turn the pages ourselves when she told us to.
Then: Nobody’s Boy (more recently translated as Alone in the World) by Hector Malot.
I was seven and remember it so vividly. It was the first time a story broke my heart. We were all bawling. Because of the story itself but also because our mom told it so beautifully (which, she likes to remind us, we complimented her about in-between sobs).
It was that experience that made me realize there was magic to be found in books. The trip to the library became a weekly delight.
Roald Dahl, Enid Blyton, Astrid Lindgren, Thea Beckman.
Donald Duck, Tintin, Asterix, Lucky Luke and Michel Vaillant comic books.
I still re-read them every now and then because they were so good.

I wasn’t a bookworm in the sense that I was only ever reading: none of my friends were big readers so we never read on playdates or sleepovers, and we never talked about what we read. Instead, we ran around outside, played games, and hosted dance shows.
I was also busy with sports and music lessons, and as soon as I was allowed to, had a paper route that took up a lot of time.
Reading was limited to the backseat of the car during summer vacations, and in bed.
I read way past my bedtime. Whenever my mom spotted the light on late despite earlier warnings, she would come in and unscrew the lightbulb, forcing me to stop.
Then, in school, the best thing ever happened: reading! For homework! Exams about books!
While my classmates moaned and dragged their feet, I happily skipped to the library to pick up George Orwell, Daphne du Maurier and Charlotte Bronte.
Getting to discuss these; thinking about structure, symbolism and language. I loved every minute of it.
During college I kept on reading, putting aside study books and using novels as a reward / distraction / palate cleanser.
Freshly graduated I went to live in Ireland, where I didn’t have a library card but discovered second-hand bookshops to feed my need to read within budget.
Being stuck on busses during rush hour in Dublin, got me into the habit of always carrying a book in my bag. Commuting turned into reading time.
Moving back to the NL, I remained a book-buyer until I ran out of space and money.
(Buying books is an expensive hobby which is why 95% of my collection is paperback.)
So, I became a library card owner once again and have since enjoyed the heck out of that, all the more so, since two years ago a library branch opened about 500 steps from my front door. Good times.
I try to limit my book buying to vacations (I don’t want to risk losing a library book while travelling!) or special occasions (a Christmas present to myself!), and that’s helped a lot. One year I managed not to buy any books at all.
I was so proud of my restraint, that I rewarded myself with a trip to my favourite bookshop…

I still always carry a book with me wherever I go. And if a book is almost finished, I make sure to bring a backup.
I still tend to read past my bedtime.
I love talking about books so much, I’m even writing about it.
I now have a lot of reader-friends to discuss and exchange books with.

Am I a bookworm or did books worm their way into my heart? I think the latter caused the former.
Books should come with a warning sticker. Highly addictive. Will open your eyes and your mind and might break your heart.