Young Writers Society

There's this distinct smell of old books. You know what I'm talking about; aged-paper, ink, dirt. It's a comforting scent. One that reminds me of summer nights, sitting in the hammock that hangs above the porch at my grandmother's house in Los Alamos. It's like the saying goes, "never judge a book by the cover." And I don't -judge the book by its cover, that is. No, instead I judge a book by its smell. Yeah that might seem a bit weird, but that's how I've come to find the most intense stories I've ever read, because the greatest tales are always the ones left unnoticed. 

There's this thrift store I go to up in Santa Fe and every time I step over the threshold, I know where both my mind and feet are headed. To the far left corner. The book section. It's there that I glide between the shelves until I get to the very front, then I work backwards. Quietly I walk down the rows, brushing a finger along the spine of each book, head tilted sideways, lips moving in the shape of the letters -forming inaudible words; silent. I walk until a title catches my eye, then I stop. Gently I pull it from its home between its family and I examine it. Nose pressed to the closed book, I inhale. That initial inhale is like a right of passage for me, but at the same time, it's also like a first impression. Like somehow I can tell the story that it holds, every place it's been or every hand that it has been held in.

Yet, the real magic is the moment I open its pages, just enough to read its words without cracking its spine. It's at this precise time that I can fully take in the beauty of the book and everything that it is. I can see the meaning and importance that it carries, read its words and become teleported into a new life, a new world and a new persona. Sometimes it's romance, and I get to experience what it would be like to have a family, fall in love or even, fall out of love. Other times, I get to ride in fast cars, break into buildings and decipher coded messages. However, most of the time, I'm tossed into a giant maze of trying to figure out who the murderer is, or when I [as the victim] will become the next lifeless heap on the floor. Even still, it doesn't matter what kind of story the book contains. To me, they're all beautiful. They're all alive.

But lets go back to that thrift store, to walking down the rows of overly stuffed shelves, to brushing a finger along each spine and to inhaling the scent of a book. These are the days, that I find what I'm looking for; in myself, in the world and in others. I bet you're asking what I mean. It's simple. Every story is written by someone who has lived and experienced their own dreams, their own challenges and their own resolutions. The books they write are like collective thoughts; fiction or not. When I [or you for that matter] read, I experience someone else's moments, their memories and their passion. Those stories, the ones that make me cry, laugh or scream in frustration define who I am. They show the world what it is that makes me, well me. And it all begins with an inhale.

A/N: So I would really appreciate some help with this one. First, this is part of a final assessment grade for my AP Literature class, that said, I am not allowed to exceed 650 words [I'm at 582] and second it's due Wednesday. Please give me all your feed back, good or bad. Thanks so much!