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Thanks, Mom

Book birthdays are a bit like real birthdays.  You can't help but look back at how you got here. My mom is the one who hooked me on books. We used to visit the library constantly and come back with these mountains of books that nearly required a U-Haul to drag home.  My mom finally imposed a rule that I was only allowed to take out as many books as I could carry. And so I got really good at stretching my arms out as far as I could and balancing an enormous stack of books between my fingertips and my chin. She was the one who encouraged me to read fantasy.  She introduced me to Lloyd Alexander and Anne McCaffrey and David Eddings, and I introduced her to Susan Cooper and Tamora Pierce and Diana Wynne Jones. Some of my best memories growing up are of her and me curled up side by side on the couch reading, often with a bowl of popcorn nearby.  We still give each other books for birthdays nearly every year. It’s her fault that my house has books everywhere. My bookshelves are two rows deep, and there are stacks of books in the basement too.  Her house is the same way. And of course it is in part because of her that I’m a writer now. I decided back when I was that kid waddling along with a stack of books wedged under my chin that I wanted to create stories and share them.  Books to me are these magical things. They’re innocent-looking rectangles that hold entire worlds. Anyway, on the book birthday for my new book, ICE, I just wanted to say: Thanks, Mom.