I feel I should write about my dad because it’s all his fault if I spend all my money and energy and time on books.
My dad had quite the collection of books: tons of paperbacks in fantasy, sci-fi, fiction, the supernatural including vampires and werewolves, graphic, the classics, all kinds of genres (except M/M I’m pretty sure…) and they were all available to me. He also collected reference books on a bunch of different subjects: history, photography, war, art, mythology, you name it, he had it.
He also had a book in his face at dinnertime, when he watched t.v., when he went in the bathroom, piles in his bedroom, and he always had one in his briefcase and one in the inside pocket of his jacket.
Yup, I sometimes felt ignored or uninteresting, as I had to talk to paperback covers and they didn’t always answer.
But he gave me the love of reading, and the love of writing. My dad wanted to write a book. He started one, and I had the privilege of reading his draft, only a few pages. The idea was good. He never finished it. I wish he had.
He taught me that books are precious and you take care of them. You don’t leave them on a radiator because that will dry the glue in the spine and it’ll fall apart. You don’t break the spine by opening it all the way. You don’t mark your page by leaving the book open on the pages cause it’ll get dog-eared. But the man was full of contradictions: he would mark his page by bending the corner. So when I read his books, I sometimes made it a challenge to stop at the same places he had.
I miss you Dad.