I grew up in between the pages of my favourite books, almost constantly leafing though pages of black and white print.
My love affair with books continued from a young age, mostly because when I read a story I stopped seeing the words upon the page. Instead I would watch as colours and characters danced before my eyes, while the words slipped in and out of focus. My mind became a miniature film projector, a tiny nickelodeon, clicking and hissing, missing the odd frame. But it crakled the book to life.
It filled my head with characters, allowed me to meed witches who weren’t green, faeries spelled with an’e’ and princes that were rescued by dragons.
Books filled with adventure
Where I wept for Atreyu, discovered new worlds with Lyra and Will, and sailed still on a lake with Winnie and Tuck. There were no boundaries in a book. I had whole universes in the palm of my hand, places I could visit with friends that I had made along the way.
However much I write, and however many writers I meet I will never get around the idea that their characters are not real, that they did not stroll, fully formed out from the authors head. These places were all infinitely real to me.
Méabh's Childhood Stories 