I don’t just love reading books — I love buying them. A stack of books balanced in my arms as I teeter up to the checkout counter offers me the same dopamine rush that someone else might get from a favorite meal, buying a new pair of shoes or planning a vacation.
It all started at the Village Green Bookstore on Monroe Avenue, in Rochester, New York, back when I was a moody kid. I always wanted — and needed — more than my mom could give me. This was not her fault. No one taught parents about kids with deep feelings back then. ADHD medication was not widely available. And she didn’t have the tools or the time to deal with me. Books filled the gaps between my high demands and my mother’s low reserves.
In my childhood home, we struggled, surviving on what other people didn’t want or need. When my mom put money in the basket at church on Sunday, I prayed we wouldn’t need it ourselves hours later for gas money. Often we would. I snapped at her for giving what she could not afford…