16 July 2010
The summer I learned to read...
I’ve never been a big reader. I managed to drag my limited attention span through whatever I was forced to read in school. Since then, I’ve probably read no more than a dozen fiction books since college. I’ve always admired people who read but just never got there myself. Oh, sure, I’ve pushed myself to read a few titles I promised others I’d read, but very seldom have I seen a novel I just HAD to read. Given my extensive collection of books, it’s easy to see I really enjoy non-fiction reading. Show me how to do something; tell me your life story; or give me reference material—that I love!
I am thinking more about writing these days. Something I discovered a dozen years ago is that I can write a very detailed description of something/someone, but have great difficulty getting that person or thing to advance down a story line. Hence, the reason for needing to read and see how other writers transform and transport their characters through time and space.
Which title next? My friend, Naomi, a voracious reader, who has read the entire series, tells me this first book was her least favorite. Hmm. Well, that’s interesting. It only gets better from here? Intriguing. I perused the titles of the following volumes and needed to decide whether to read by preference in title interest or the order in which they were written. My logical left brain won out and we’re doing it chronologically.
My husband, Tom, used to have great difficulty remembering the names of people he met. I told him if he keeps telling himself he’s bad at remembering names, he’s self-fulfilling the prophecy and will never change. He’s reminded me of this as it applies to my reading.
“I am not a reader” is no longer my personal statement because THIS is the summer I learned to read.