So in my family I was an oddity. My dad was the ultimate outdoors man. He worked outside, he fished, he hunted, he camped out and as a single dad he took his three kids with him every chance he could. I never once in all his life, ever saw my dad read a book. It never happened. I wasn't around my mom much, but the time I was, she also never read. My younger sister and brother had rather have a root canal than read a book. They both took after dad and love to be outside. I do too, but with a book. You see where I'm going here?
I'm not sure where my love of books came from, but I have always had a very emotional connection to them. I can remember as a child reading Charlotte's Web and Little Women and crying as if my own beloved family member had just died. My family thought I was weird. Looking back now I was a little off. I would crawl up on the roof to read, hide in a closet, hold a fishing pole with one hand and a book with the other. Daddy would just shake his head. I'm pretty sure he thought I had been switched at birth and if I wasn't a shorter version of my mom I would think so too.
In thirty years of marriage my husband also never read a book, but he also did not mind me reading one (if he had we would have never made it to thirty years.) He actually bought me one of my favorite books, Honor's Splendour by Julie Garwood. It's an oldie but a goodie. I still have it, because it's good and because it's the first book he ever bought me and every time I re-read it, it makes me think of him.
I have no doubt that the two of them are hanging together in heaven, watching over me and shaking their heads that I now write erotica. Dad would be "she always had her nose in a book" and my husband would be smiling, knowing that he is always my hero's inspiration, because there is a little bit of him in every male lead that I write.
My dad on a camping/fishing trip in the early 70's. That man loved a bologna sandwich and a pabst!