When asked to choose a few events to blog about at VIWF, I looked at the list and felt quite at sea. I didn’t know most of the authors and there seemed to be so many choices I didn’t know where to start. But then I noticed Rich With History. “Some novels can be set anywhere,” said the blurb, and suddenly I remembered a little girl. A little girl, on her knees with the scratchy carpet digging in, head cocked sideways to more easily read the titles of the books, scouring the library shelves for pages that told of faraway places, stories that told of lives lived long ago. I remembered how her favourite thing to do was to slip into the fabric of a tale set in a place so foreign and fascinating to her, the feeling she got when she finished a historical novel, like she’d just awoken from a dream, how she loved anything that took her far away from the place and the time she knew so well. I remembered that little girl well.