‘B’ is for Bibliophiles and Blogs

(I’m finding this very awkward, and it’s only my second – technically third – post. I’m determined to keep it up though, for now.)

So I find there are a lot of people on this planet who like to read, and a ton of them have blogs.

Interesting...

As any self-respecting wannabe-writer, I too adore books. I love to read, I love to buy and collect books, I practically salivate in Waterstones, and a trip to the library in the highlight of my week – too bad about the 10-books-at-a-time limit they have going on though.

I once saw this mug in a gift-shop that said, ‘I’d rather be reading’ – and that sums up my state of mind, at all times. This can be a tad inconvenient when I forget all about my endless-novel, and the 1000 word deadline I set myself, and instead read all three books from a series by Nora Roberts in one weekend. By the time I finish, its 6.30 pm on Sunday and of course there’s no time to get any writing done that day so I might as well start (and possibly finish) the new Mills & Boon on my nightstand before bed.

And I can read anything. (Well, anything fiction – not that I am against non-fiction, but I tend not to pick one up at the library or a bookshop unless someone recommends it). I just finished a ridiculously brilliant short story collection by Margaret Atwood (Good Bones) and I am currently reading Anita Shreve’s Strange Fits of Passion. Next on my shelf is a lovely M & B by India Grey – one of my favourite M & B writers. 

I used to think my obsessive reading habits were abnormal, until I came to the UK.

I grew up in Tanzania. Until junior high I knew maybe five people who liked to read, in the whole school. In high school there were more, but not one of them read with any degree of obsession. In college, in India, there was one other guy that I knew of and could exchange books with. I developed this identity then, as ‘the girl who reads’. Friends teased me about it, they bought books as gifts for me for every occasion, and gently rebuked when I was lost in my novel and not paying attention to something more important.

So yes, I thought I was unusual.

In those years when I was growing up in Tanzania, books were something of a novelty. Our school library was severely limited and there was only one store in town that sold books – not a bookstore but a stationary shop that happened to stock a few novels. They had Archie comics, Enid Blyton, Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys, and the Sweet Valley Series – all of which were perfect for a while, but then I grew out of them and the options were limited to my dad’s little collection of ‘grown-up’ novels – mostly spy thrillers and Wilbur Smith.

Things looked up when some nice people in the States donated their old books to charity, which then arrived in Tanzania in ships and were sold on the pavements. Most of these were academic books – a lot of algebra and geography – but sometimes, if you scour very diligently, you could find a Sidney Sheldon or a Danielle Steele, or one seller with a dozen or so Mills & Boons. About three times in a year, my Dad drove my sister and me to that one street where they usually had the best of the fiction books. Of course there was no fixed price for them and my sister and I, being terrible at our poker faces, would get very excited when we found a certain amazing book and make its price shoot right up. Dad, conveniently, was a good haggler.

It got to a point when I was desperate for books. I used to look at all those lovely online book stores that were only available to ‘residents of the United States and Canada’, and dream of the day when I could have books delivered to my doorstep!

(All of this might sound quite medieval, but it was just about a decade ago!)

But here! In the UK!! Every other person on the tube has a book in their hand, so much so that I forget my own book whilst twisting my neck in strange ways to read their titles. And the book stores! They are everywhere! High street ones, independent ones, charity shops and the amazing Amazon!! (Forgive the multiple exclamation points – this subject tends to excite me.)

And bibliophiles are all on the World Wide Web, talking about their ailment, which is apparently quite widespread. I am a little sad about losing my exclusive claim on ‘the girl who reads’, but it is also flippin’-fantastic to read these blogs with books reviews and author interviews and all things books!

(Give me a minute while I count the number of times I used the word ‘book’ in this post.)

(Twenty-two.)

Anyway, speaking of blogs, this one has become something of a journal, hasn’t it? I suppose I have yet to find the style and rhythm for it as a blog. The 500-word thing is also shot, but that can only be a good thing. I think I will now make my minimum 750 words.

Oh, and ‘B’ is also for Bittersweet Chocochips. In case you’re wondering about the title of my blog, well, I really can’t explain it myself. Just put it down to my love for dark chocolate, baking and unsubtle metaphors.