when I was a little girl I liked being read stories but I found them lacking something because I wanted to jump into the book and pictures to be part of the book, so I found that the flat sided appeal of the paper was so limiting I had to use my imagination but if only I could have literally been able to jump into the pages, its like my story about running into a Rembrandt or Monet painting and being in another world far different. typically alice in wonderland or like Lost in Austen… I wanted to be like Thumbelina… as a child or other stories… I don’t know why I felt that way. I remember that feeling as back as in 1975 and 1976 before the house burnt down we lived on the farm, after the fire I felt like I died … my brain is a bit fuzzy around then.
