When I was a youngun’ I used to hide myself away in my room, always with a book in hand, and I would spend hours nibbling on the snack plate my grandmother provided me, lost in worlds far faraway.

Reading was my favorite thing to do.  I read anything and everything I could get my sweaty little hands on.  I wrote my own stories on yellow legal paper, and in sweet little journals, decorated with flowers and swirly designs.  I could sit and write for hours.  I could read for hours.  My imagination was always full of a million ideas.

And then … life got in the way.  And TV expanded its already expansive options.  And I grew up.  And I didn’t have time anymore to write idyllic lyrics while sitting under a tree.

Ah youth.  Wasted, as they say, on the young.

A few years ago, by dumb fluke luck, I happened upon a series of books that made reading addictive again. I mean, do-extra-work-to-give-myself-time -to-read addictive.  And, as I mentioned last Friday, I wait with barely bridled anticipation every year in the dark, cold days of late winter for the announcement of the summer publishing date of the newest addition.

Today, ladies and gentlemen, is that day this year.  I am giddy with excitement to walk into Barnes and Noble and purchase Daniel Silva’s newest novel featuring the art restorer and Israeli spy, Gabriel Allon.  I have already envisioned my evening sitting in the garden with a crisp glass of white wine and reading until all the light in the sky is gone.  And then curling up on the couch to continue late into the night.

Oh, and I’ll probably make some Zucchini Fritters to munch on.  But my cup will be full to the brim with my new book in hand.  And what a wonderful feeling that is!