I grew up immersed in books.
The kind of books that won Newberry Medals in the 70s and 80s.
The kind of books that touched on divorce, loneliness, suicide, depression, and all the confusing things young adults would encounter.
The kind of books that shaped me at an early and pivotal age.
The kind of books that I am sure are partially responsible for my intuitive understanding and compassion for others inner feelings.
The kinds of books I don’t like talking about with other people because they are so intrinsically linked to me, that they feel personal.
I was not a lonely, or depressed child, I was well adjusted, well loved, taken care of and privileged in almost every way save the color of my skin and my gender.
But I still hold these books as close to my heart as if they were words from my own private diary.
One such book I will share, though I hate to let it go– A Solitary Blue. by Cynthia Voigt.
I don’t do book reviews…I suggest you go read it and if you have ever had just a tinge of melancholy to your personality, you will love the subtleties to the writing.
As a child, I adored this book. and the word prompt of the day immediately made me think of it.