I remember reading my first book, flipping through the pages of the story as I hid away in the corner of my room. I read that book every day, all day, stopping only to eat or take a quick trip to the bathroom. At night, when it was lights out, I would quickly reach under my bed to grab a flashlight so I could read a few more lines. I wouldn’t dare fall asleep without filling my eyes to the brim with this magical story. And it was a bit like magic to me. The characters were my magicians; the events of the story were my tricks. It all took place in the pages, my stage. When I finished the last few lines, I remember closing the book and sliding down the bed to rest my head on the pillow. And then I cried. I couldn’t understand how it could end the way it did.

My second book was much the same. More hiding, more late nights by flash light, and when I was done, more tears. When I dried my eyes for the second time in as many stories, I made a pledge to myself. Never, will I ever, get a dog. What was the point? Why get a dog if it would just be attacked by some wild animal and die, or worse, get rabies, in which case I’d have to get a gun and shoot it myself? Growing up without a dog seemed like the better plan.

I might have read other stories before those first two, but I can’t remember. I probably read a few of those pop-up books, or those books that start with A is for Apple, but I distinctly remember reading Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows and thinking that, literally, all dogs go to heaven, usually much sooner than their owners would like. I also thought I had fallen in love with stories. This thought, unlike the dog thought, turned out to be true.

I love stories, I always have. When I was done sobbing like the little boy I was, I made my way over to a small box of books we had in the corner of our living room and grabbed my next magic show. I quickly dived into another story and I haven’t stopped since, minus a period in high school after my English teacher made my class read The Great Gatsby. She said it was one of the greatest stories of all time and I figured if that was the case it was better to just stop while I was ahead. Luckily, I’ve since decided other wise.

My love affair with books has led me through a lot of pages, to a lot of magic shows. I’ve read big books and small books, thin books and thick books. In elementary school, I attempted to read The Yearling, which, if you don’t know, is big…too big. I stopped halfway through. The majority of the books I read, however, I did finish. I’ve finished fiction books and non-fiction books, scary stories by Stephen King and some not so scary stories by Stephen King. Lately, I’ve become a big fan of biographies. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s because I’ve grown up, and as a kid grows out of magic, I myself have grown out of fiction. Perhaps I know that in biographies, the stories, the magic, is real. No, that’s not true. It can’t be. I quite vividly remember reading 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and although I knew the story was fiction, the magic was quite real. So real, in fact, I would find myself tucked underneath my covers with a flashlight, just for old times sake.

I also enjoy shopping for books. Now, when it comes to shopping in general, I like to consider myself more of a purchaser: I know what I want and I go get it, no need to snoop around. With books, however, it’s different. I actually like to snoop, I like to take my time and look at everything, even if I leave with nothing. I guess it’s a like a woman in a shoe store, except I don’t end up in front of a mirror with a look of indecision on my face. And just as I imagine any shoe store would please a woman, any bookstore would do the trick for me. I’m a frequent shopper at places like Barnes and Noble and Borders, but I’m not vain in my shopping taste. I don’t mind visiting a second-hand store; in fact I quite like the smell of an old, used book. The thing I’ve discovered about bookstores is that they’re a bit like zoos. They are all the same, but I’d like to see them all.

There is one bookstore that I wish I could see again. It sits in Los Angeles on the Sunset Strip and although I’ve only been there once, I know it’s my favorite. I had heard rumors that it was good, that it filled you like a warm bowl of chicken soup, and when I finally stepped inside I knew…sometimes, rumors are true. The floor was old, wooden, and sore from many years of use. I could hear its shrieks of pain as I walked along, my nose in the air, my eyes fixed on the thousands of stories above. The high bookcases matched the floorboards and were lined in no particular order. The books were stuffed inside the cases like a row of dominoes right before its creator adds the finishing touch with a flick of a finger. I don’t know if it was heaven, but I hope it was close.

I spent nearly two hours in this store and would have loved to make it three, but unfortunately I had to get back on the road and keep heading east. It was meant to be a quick stop, one I convinced myself I could make short, because the sun was about to hit the Pacific and I still had a long ways to go. I should’ve known. The problem was there were too many books to look at, too many stories to peruse through. And maybe that’s what I love so much about books. No matter how I feel, or what I want, there is always a book, a story for every moment. Feeling down? Get a book. Feel like laughing? Get a book. Want to learn to play piano? Get a book. And so it goes, on and on and on with no end in sight.