In your own words: An open letter to the book I lost

Hello, all! I know this blog is focused on reviews of books that have been written by wicked awesome authors, but I thought maybe of sharing something of my own. Here is a quick letter I wrote to one of my favorite books, Magic Bites by Ilona Andrews, which I have not been able to find on my shelf. Please let me know what you think!


To my inked paper friend,

You were bought with love, a careful decision. You, the champion of the day, stood out on shelves upon shelves of others like you, neat spines with bold words all enticing, begging to come home with me. Despite all of the others whose names were scribbled on my “shopping list,” it was you that grabbed my eye and stole my heart with a couple of sentences printed on the back. A dashing heroine on the front, sword raised and lion at her feet. It took me three days to read your words cover to cover the first time, from the pages of maps all the way to the redundant glossary in the back. Nothing could pull me away.

I had you in my car on the passenger seat, a constant reminder of better times when I was in the middle of your story. Your sequel was so far away, the worst fate a reader can face: waiting for the story to continue. But you stayed with me through the agonizing span of time, read and re-read on many a rainy day and lonely lunch break. Even when your spine cracked and your pages stained with coffee and tears, you were still a staunchly loyal companion. Who cares if you weren’t a classic, or on any best-seller list? To me, your words were worth far more than a critic’s stamp of approval.

Then one day, just days before your sequel came out on shelves, you were not there for my masochistic enjoyment. I searched my shelves, pored through boxes of forgotten treasures, even (the horror) cleaned my car looking for your most-beloved cover, but you had disappeared. I cried, mourned more than a person really should mourn an easily-replaceable item. It didn’t matter that I could buy another copy, it wasn’t the same. My notes in the margins, testaments of my dedication to your story; the stains and bends and breaks from the loving abuse you suffered; these were all missing from any shiny sibling of yours sitting in the store.

To this day, years later and many sequels in, I still think of you, the book that started the dynasty that sits in my personal library at home. And also to this day, I haven’t replaced you. In my dreams, I find you in a dusty thrift store, the prodigal child finally ready to return home. Until then, you are irreplaceable to me. There is a gap in front of your series in your honor, the book that got away.


Your loving reader,


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