Many thanks to Olivia Emily of Bibliomad for the below guest post. Do please visit Olivia’s blog which can be found here (https://bibliomad.wordpress.com/).

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Little, fair-haired Olivia flicked through the pages of Narnia, wishing ever-so deeply that she could escape through the back of her wardrobe, just like Lucy did.

But, she couldn’t do that.

Narnia is a fantasy novel, after all, and though it exists in a truthful era, the essence of fantastical concepts is entriely fictitious, much to little Olivia’s dismay. However, instead of climbing through a wardrobe, little Olivia immersed herself in books, wriggling through the flimsy pages, laying herself snuggly between the sentences, and winding the words around her adolescent bones.

This metaphor I use in the most truthful manner possible. Fiction isn’t in my blood, nor is it in my bones, but wrapped tightly around them thanks to little Olivia many moons ago. I wasn’t born to be a writer; I fell in love with fiction so deeply, that it seems as though writing is a natural becomming of that. And I couldn’t be more thankful.

Reading is an escape mechanism for many, and – in the earlier moments of my childhood – that value included me. However, despite my love developing from lonliness, literature makes me feel anything but. Firstly, the characters I witness feel like old friends. Secondly, the characters I write about feel like little parts of myself, sprinkled over the page. Thirdly, the doors both my reading and writing have opened are the doors to every little thing I have ever wanted, and ever could want.

And that brings me to the true purpose of this guest post – my blog.

I started BiblioMad just over 3 months ago, and since then, I have (somehow) accumulated 187 followers, who all seem to care about what I have to say. That is a great feeling.

Primarily, I post book reviews, which is a beautiful way to combine my love of reading with my love of writing, and – frankly – it is my favourite thing to do.

Although BiblioMad could also be percieved as an escape mechanism, I argue only with this: I write not to hide, not to escape from my life, and not to gain praise, but to throw myself into the spotlight and express what I have to say. Whether that’s personal opinions, works of fiction, or breif messages from my whirlwind of a mind, I write not to dissapear, but to exist in my simplist form; the writer.