When I was a kid I used to press flowers in books. Now I know that's not the best use of old books, but back then it was simply a habit learned from my family. Borrow an old book from my great aunt's shelves and a fragile dry wildflower would drop out of it at some point. And they were amazing wildflowers, picked before the rules to preserve Western Australia's unique flora kicked in and made picking them illegal. Donkey, spider and snail orchids. Eggs and bacon (it's a flower over here, trust me). But no kangaroo paws (also a flower!). Even for Aunty Nancy, a fat furry green and red kangaroo paw was a bit of strain to press.
But the joy of these pressed flowers was ever fresh. They held memories of bush walks, long talks and sunny skies. It didn't need to be me who pressed the flower. They were triggers for whoever held the book.
Now book reviews of my books are giving me the same pleasure. They are fragments of my stories and readers' experience of them. They are in a sense happy memories -- hopefully happy! They give me joy and encouragement and I'm conscious they're a gift. Thank you to everyone who shares their reviews.
And the prompt for this post? Heather at Everybody Needs a Little Romance reviewed The Price of Freedom. "In the end because of the choices they made and the things they gave up because of those choices, true love prevailed. I give this book 3½ flaming (hearts)". Thanks, Heather.