I’ve been thinking about my beginnings as a writer, and I realized I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Louisa May Alcott. Her book, LITTLE WOMEN, was the first novel-length work I ever read to myself. I was eight and seriously too young to catch everything that was going on. I even managed to miss that one of the main characters had died, and I had a huge argument on the bus one day with a friend who knew The Truth.
But there were things that sunk in deeply and nourished me for years. Jo’s love for books told me it was okay to love them as deeply as I did. Her sister’s comparative indifference to the printed word told me most of the people in my life would likely not feel the book-fever. And her love of writing? I’ve mentioned elsewhere that as an eight year old, I actually (sort of) believed LMA had based the character on me.
There have been many books since for which I’m grateful, and I think I’ll mention a couple this upcoming week as I post reminders about my blog tour.
Blog Tour? Did SOMEONE say Blog Tour?