I love stories.
I have been entranced listening to a story teller who made me laugh and cry.
I have curled up with a book on a wet Sunday afternoon and lost track of time.
I have sat in the dark of a cinema mesmerised by the images on the screen.
One of my earliest memories is sitting on my mother’s knee with the big story book in front of me. I remember the pride when, at the age of four, I was given my first library ticket. I can recall the excitement of diving under the Christmas tree for the book shaped present that I knew was mine. I’ll never forget squabbling with my sister over ‘Little Women’ because we both wanted to be Jo. I wrote my first story at the age of eight and was amazed at what I had created.
Stories run through us like the blood in our veins and I am puzzled when I hear people argue over ‘real’ books or digital books or about books or films. Why does it matter? Stories matter. How you come to the story is purely choice. Rather than argue over ‘real’ books versus digital why not celebrate the wealth of stories that abound, the creativity of the story tellers and the ingenuity of their medium.
And I was a much better Jo than my sister. I was born in November. My sister wasn’t.