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.

Writing didn’t scare me. It welcomed me with open arms and gave me an outlet for the ideas and comments fighting to come out of my brain. So I turned to it again and again.

Good enough would have to do. Not everything could be perfect. It was one of the most important lessons I learned at business school.