What’s On My Bookshelf with Author Anne Greenwood Brown
Today’s “What’s On My Bookshelf” features young adult author Anne Greenwood Brown. Anne’s debut novel, LIES BENEATH, will be out June 12. LIES BENEATH is a chilling mix of romance, mystery and suspense, and features something new in the paranormal genre: murderous mermaids! We loved this quick-paced thriller and we know you will, too. Plus, a sequel will be out early next year, so you won’t have to wait too long to see what lies in store for Calder, the narrator, and his family. One more cool thing: Anne created a playlist to accompany the book! You can listen to it here.
This is my book case. It’s on the small side, and it’s pretty full. Some might say I need a new one, but I know I don’t because I’m not a book collector. I’m a book abuser.
Frankly, when it comes to books, I’m a bit OCD. I buy a book. Read it. Then read it again. And again. I wear books out like old friends from whom you’ve asked too many favors.
Hopefully, by the time the binding breaks, there will be a movie, but most of the time there’s not. So I read it again. I probably won’t ever need a new bookcase because by the time the pages are falling out, the poor thing gives up and willingly surrenders its shelf space to a new recruit.
I’ve often stared at that bookcase and wondered, if the house caught fire, which one would I grab as I ran for the door. Each time the answer is the same. If I could save only one book, it would be my copy of MISS TWIGGLEY’S TREE by Dorothea Warren Fox.
It starts out like this:
Funny Miss Twiggley lived in a tree,
with a dog named Puss and a color t.v.
She did what she liked,
and she liked what she did,
But when company came,
Miss Twiggley hid.
Not what you expected, right? I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve read this book. It has held a place of honor in my heart since I was five years old, when my grandpa came home from work and handed it to me. It was one of the most singularly defining days of my life.
I remember vivid details of the moment: the smell of the newly inked paper, the grass stains on my skinned knees, and the black-and-white checked kitchen floor. Soon, I remembered every single word of the book and could perform its thirty pages verbatim. With hand gestures.
And dramatic pauses.
Grandpa’s rough hands–with that book–told me that I was loved. That I was important. And that I, like Miss Twiggley, could do big, big things.
Miss Twiggley went to college with me and came home with me. She still survives, now with her torn pages and duct taped binding, not on the bookshelf with the others but on my bedside table. She reminds me that the gift of a book is a gift of the heart, and so long as it is continually read, the giver is never really gone.