Earlier this week, I dropped a brick on my foot. Not an actual brick, but something roughly the size and shape of a brick. It hurt like hell, and my foot immediately got a nasty bruise and started swelling. My husband leapt into action, helping me to the bed and arranging the pillows so I was as comfortable as someone with an OhNoIThinkIBrokeItBecauseItHurtsSoBad foot can be. Before he went to get the ice, he paused and asked:
Where is your book?
I told him and he handed me the book (THE BLACK HOUR by Lori Rader Day) before heading for the kitchen.
After the pain subsided, it occurred to me that what he had actually handed me was my binky.
We all had a binky as kids, right? Mine was a ratty green and white blanket, without which I could not fall asleep. Heck, I couldn’t really even function at all. Whether it was a stuffed animal, a beloved toy, or a piece of cloth, we each had a physical object that brought us comfort, gave us courage, soothed our tears, and accompanied us everywhere.
As an adult, my binky is whatever book I’m reading.
When the going gets tough—as the going sometimes does—I take refuge in a book. If I’m upset or scared, I read. When I’m frustrated to the point of madness, it is a book that keeps me among the (mostly) sane.
I wanted to share this story because it struck me that maybe sometimes, authors don’t realize how important your books are. If that happens to you, remember your binky. Know that your hard work, your story, is a reader’s binky.
And there is nothing more important than The Binky.
