LaPalm Books

In my teen years, I became desperate for anything to read as I sought knowledge, exploration, and discovery of that which existed beyond my young life on a farm. Newspapers and library books were the obvious standby. However, my go-to reads soon became the worn mass-market paperbacks and magazines traded amongst my mother and aunts. I don’t recall many titles. They were the non-descript, popular items of the time and I used them to fill my long hours. But, there will always be a certain book that cannot be forgotten. Gone with the Wind (Margaret Mitchell) essentially changed my reading experience. This book covered an imperfect, yet alluring life I never knew existed. People before me had actually loved and hated, struggled and succeeded. They made bad choices and harbored regrets. And somehow, miraculously, they moved on. Survived. From that point on, I would search for books which not only told a magnificent story, but chronicled the growing pains of our historical experience. I was 12. I no longer accepted fluff. I demanded substance. And I wanted to write like that…

My twenties were a blur, consumed with new jobs, falling in love, marriage, a first home, moves, and perhaps more importantly, socializing. I was busy and lent little time for books. But of course, I managed to fit a few in here and there. One title stands out for the mere fact that it once again shifted my tastes toward a new genre. The Stranger Beside Me (Ann Rule) provided an entirely different form of insight. Life could be charming but cruel. It was at one moment bright and then all at once menacing, rife with ulterior motives and life-altering choices. From that point on, I would search for books which not only told a magnificent story, but chronicled the lives of real people and true experiences. I was 22. I no longer accepted make-believe. I demanded reality. And I wanted to write like that…

By my thirties everything changed all over again. I returned to school and earned my BA in English. My husband and I made a major move out of our home state and then moved back…but with a new baby in tow. No longer content with loose ends, we wanted ties to bind us. Again, there seemed to be little room for reading and quite frankly, I was burnt out from the 1000s of pages and dozens of books that constituted “required reading” as an English Lit major. I needed a break from 15th century Old English and Shakespeare and poetry. Yet, happily and willingly, I was immersed into an entirely new world of books. More than any other, The Things They Carried (Tim O’Brien) made me realize life is rarely easy whether it be fiction or non-fiction. His story was horribly depressing, but mesmerizing. I questioned which parts were true and what was fabricated. And after a few chapters, I honestly didn’t care. I wished it would have happy endings though I knew it probably wouldn’t. I  read on because it was terrifying and poetic. From that point on, I would search for books which not only told a magnificent story, but chronicled the psychological tragedies of historical experience and real people all while rolled into a beautifully written book. I was 32. I no longer accepted being left in the dark or bored. I demanded answers and quality. And I wanted to write like that…