I’ve always lived in a book house.

I remember staying up to read late into the night.  I’d sneak over to the corner of my room and hunch over the night-light, desperate to uncover the next great adventure hiding between the pages. It was my release. We lived in the country, pretty far out from town, so didn’t have many friends visiting. I spent my days in Narnia, or riding dragons, befriending ghosts, taming wild horses. It was incredible to me how a simple bundle of paper could act as a time-machine, or a doorway to a world  where magic not only existed—-but flourished.

These days, I still get to visit Narnia and ride dragons—but I bring someone with me. Five years old, full of curiosity, and predisposed to the world of adventure. It’s more fun that way.