I’m pretty positive at this point that I was born to be a writer. Looking back at my early years, there are just too many coincidences for it to be anything less. I went through many packs of crayons (I had a tendency for intensity and crayons are fragile) illustrating my stories of mermaids and princesses. I flipped through books, memorizing the pictures so my mom thought I could read.

And most important of all, even as a child, I had my own library.

I was raised around books. My mother read to me every night before bed, as if she thought it would help me relax and grow tired. She probably read this in a book. One that didn’t account for creative writer babies. Her stories had the opposite effect on me, as you can imagine, and I would stare at her with wide eyes in alarm as she shut the book.

“One more?” I would beg, sweetly even, if I may add. Her refusals caused my pleas to become less sweet, and I became a monster. (Maybe this was the turning point of my growing into a writer, because I still do this when I have to edit my work.)

In my house, we had one official library and two unofficial libraries. My dad’s office had a wall of shelves, packed with books about baseball and business and boring old things. The sunroom had four shelves of our children’s books, ranging from Nancy Drew to Dr. Seuss (the majority of these books belong to yours truly, don’t let my brothers tell you otherwise). And lastly, the official library was remodeled into my bedroom. Originally used as my mom’s office, the entire floor of the house was dedicated to work. A row of floor to ceiling bookcases covered the walls, and were full of my parents assortments. I was comforted in this room, and was beyond thankful when my mom agreed to share it with me for a bedroom.

When it came to moving to college, although I had an abnormally large collection of shoes and kitchen utensils and notebooks and tea, my books outweighed everything (literally). The boxes and bags of books that I told myself I couldn’t go away without are sitting on the modern wooden bookshelf I bought just for my dorm, and a majority of them haven’t been touched.

But that’s not their purpose, exactly. I brought my favorite books with me because they’re comforting. An environment where stories and binding and pages and words flow into the air is the one I breathe easiest in.

Any library is a sanctuary for me, and my campus and city are blessed with incredibly breathtaking architecture, and an even larger collection of books than I could ever imagine. I don’t know if it’s because I was born to be a writer or because I take comfort in the safety of books, but I have a love for libraries. I can’t wait until someday when I dedicate an entire room (or maybe two, or three) to my already growing stacks of books.

Earnestly,

Madeleine