Today we woke up earlier than we normally do, in order to attack the attic before the heat of the day casts us out with it's merciless and choking warmth. The objective: Organize the boxes of books that wouldn't fit in our tiny one bedroom apartment. My husband, Christopher, had recently toted all of my books that were in my parent's attic, and moved them into ours. Now, we had to go through them, organize them, and sadly, repack most of them until we move next year into a larger place.
The result was a nostalgic trip through dusty volumes of all sizes, ranging from the first Fairy Tale Book of my childhood, to compendiums of plays that I treasured in high school and college. The smell of leather bindings, the familiar faces looking out from covers of paperback favorites, and bookmarks left exactly where I had left them tucked along familiar pages. From David Copperfield and the Arabian Nights, to the Nancy Drew books I so treasured in the third grade, to my beloved fantasy and science fiction collection, the volumes I had collected and treasured growing up were all there.
Perhaps there is no better inspiration for a writer than remembering, and rereading, the books that first inspired them to write in the first place. Inside those cardboard boxes in my attic is enough inspiration to last a lifetime, and I plan on using it.