From an early age I loved to read.

As a child I could usually be found in my bedroom devouring page after page of my latest library book.

Wherever I was, a book was never far away.

In early primary school I read every Enid Blyton I could find (although I wasn’t a big fan of Noddy or The Famous Five series). As I got older I moved on to the Trixie Belden series, the Billabong series, then the period romances of Georgette Heyer and so many others.

By my late teens I was even reading Shakespeare for fun.

I loved books and the stories they contained. They were my escape and my joy. They brought me peace and a way to turn off the nagging thoughts in my head.

Put simply, they were my saviours.

My passion for books continued as an adult.

To me a home has never been a home until there are books on the shelves and pictures on the wall.

Anyone who knows me, knows I love books.

And new friends only have to see my overflowing bookcases (four at last count) to know my passion.

But somehow in the past year something has gone a bit wrong.

I’m buying books but I often don’t read them.

I still can’t walk into a bookshop without leaving with at least one new purchase.

But, instead of reading these little gems, the books are usually added to a pile on my coffee table that grows, but rarely diminishes.

Is it because I have focused so much on my own book that I don’t wish to confuse my mind with the words of other authors?

Or have I simply forgotten the joy those bound pieces of paper give me?

I’m not sure why I haven’t been reading but I’ve decided to do something about it.

I’ve got ten books on my coffee table and I’m going to read them all.

I’m calling it my personal Ten Books for Summer Read-a-thon.

I might even share my thoughts about them with you on this blog (that should keep me honest and ensure I read them).

Wish me luck!