Bookends: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and Literature

by Zibby Owens

The cracking open of a book’s spine has always been an exercise in self-discovery, healing, and fortification. That subtle whoosh when words spill out makes me salivate. Then the feel of the coarse pages under my fingertips delights my consciousness, the sudden sprinkling of syllables, the black-and-white letters in various patterns, coalescing to find their way directly to my heart. It’s magic.

Books, for me, are lifesaving. They have been my companions, my teachers, my entertainment, my emotional outlets, my escape. They’ve taught me how to cook, how to love, how to mourn, how to cope, and how to feel. They’ve allowed me to sort through my own feelings and escape into someone else’s.

Fiction writers, I thought, were particularly amazing—not just wondering about the lives of the strangers at the next restaurant table, but imagining and crafting full-on narratives about them.