Book Worm

As a child, my head was always stuck in a book. I loved the lives I got to peek in on, I loved the worlds it created, and the visions it put in my head to read a good book. I would lie in bed reading all night and shut off the lights quickly around 3 in the morning when Mom or Dad would come check on me. I would read all day and Mom would plead with me to put down the book and go outside to play. "Please stop reading!" was the ironic phrase I typically used to describe her desire for me to live life outside of those books.

Somewhere in high school, I stopped reading what I wanted, and began reading what the teachers asked me to. While I usually found these tales equally delightful, the novels, plays and storybooks gave way to textbooks and other dryly penned works of nonfiction.

One year ago, I struck gold in a college classroom: I found a textbook I actually enjoyed. The author was witty, sincere and honest, telling stories and once again bringing to mind images of what was and what could be. This experience, reading "Black Ants and Buddhists" sent me on a quest. I decided it was time to rediscover my love of reading. It has not been so easy as I imagined. I have tried to read the books that I should; hoping, rather than truly believing I would enjoy them. I began "Infinite Atonement" and was awestruck by its depth, but found it fell to the wayside. I tried "3 Cups of Tea" and while it seemed to be keeping my attention, I found myself in the same chapter for 3 months. I went to the library and picked up an award winning novel, "Cold Mountain." I discovered that when it comes to violence, I have an incredibly vivid imagination and an incredibly weak stomach.

I asked a friend, Maureen, if she could suggest any books. She gave me a list a mile long off the top of her head. Many of them she dubbed "fantasy" and I was suspicious. I took the leap however and checked one out. "The Eye of the World" by Robert Jordan. I. CANNOT. PUT. IT. DOWN. For the first time in years I find myself clinging to my book, trying to read it at red lights and while waiting in the drive-through. I find myself trying to skip ahead in excitement to find out what's coming, and then realizing that I don't want to miss a word, so rewinding and rereading just to get every delightful detail. This is not to say that everyone will love this book, some may be more taken with "Cold Mountain" or "Three Cups of Tea," but the importance lies not in what I am reading, per se. The key to this story is that I once more remember the happiness that a good book can bring. I have rediscovered my adoration of the written word. Yay for loving to read!