I was mildly astonished to notice that since January of 2010, I have 16 unpublished and unfinished book reviews.
Most of them began with something funny, about books I barely remember reading.
I have deeply resolved to never again sell all of my books, many of which took years to accumulate and some considerable effort of bookstore searching, internet crawling, and depraved, unholy public library fines to obtain.
I also admit to some very shameful family book sharing incidences from which I have never quite recovered, trust-wise. (In the black market of books, I am indebted to my sister heavily. I promise I will replace your Douglas Adams entire Hitchhiker's Guide anthology - which I read entirely in about a month.)
The point is that I, as many people know who are addicted to the crack-like high of fiction, have lived, breathed, and read any and everything I could get my hands on since I could navigate my way through a sentence at about six.
I crave. I long. I dream. I plot and scheme, sometimes, just to get a look at what people have in their library. I get glazy-eyed over just the idea of reading. I can't get through the day without one.
My name is Larisa, and I am a bookaholic.
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