“They”
say that if you want to be a writer you must be a reader.
Well
… I guess I am that. A reader, I mean. At least when judged on the basis of
frequency – the writing comes sparsely and sporadically. I read about a book a week, sometimes
more. I am indiscriminate in my reading
only having a penchant for fiction -- especially the fictional likelihood of
historical or real events. I am the worst when it comes to knowing authors -- to
my shame and their chagrin. I pick books from the canvas pop-up tent at the
library book sale and from the musty shelves at Goodwill. I actually DO judge books by their
covers; I pick them because of the way they look, the way their titles sound
rolling off my tongue and even, sometimes, simply because of how a book feels
in my hand.
I
panic -- like someone out of “Hoarders” on TV -- when I have less than a dozen
tomes awaiting, like patient pets, by my bedside. If, on a trip to the doctor’
office, I’ve forgotten to bring a book with me, I’ll read every last magazine
in the waiting room. I have even resorted to reading candy bar wrappers and
cast-off drugstore flyers when no other words are available to lay my eyes upon.
I love words. But, more than that, I love the images they create in my mind. A
candy bar wrapper, for example, can instantly conjure up the mental image of a laboratory
where chemicals combine with cocoa, white-coated lab technicians smell, taste and
research variations on a product in an effort to hit on the perfect mouth feel for
the latest Hershey company offering.
But
these wrapper-conjured images, as important as they are, pale by comparison to
the places I travel and the people I become through the skill of someone’s prose.
An olive orchard in Italy becomes my own, a train ride in China becomes my
trip. I become the Queen of England one moment and a prairie wife the next.
Time travel and shape-shifting are not only possible, they are my diet;
consumed with relish and motivated by an unappeasable appetite. I am the
tattooed lady on Coney Island. I am the super sleuth navigating the back alleys
of Marrakech. I am a lover in Paris and a
beloved in Alabama. I am a murderess in Iceland and a condor feathering its wings
to catch the thermals over the majesty of the Grand Canyon. I dip and soar and
weep in the clouds of my down comforter, pillowed by the magical words of an author’s
skill at arranging words into stories that transport me, inform and educate me,
entertain and enlighten me.
Ah
… that enlightenment element … How I wish I could tell you of the wisdom
contained in in the humblest of bound pages! It is a treasure hunt to find
these nuggets but the search is often rewarded. Sometimes a wise author urges
me to embrace humor (I have been known to giggle like a school girl in my
solitary reading) and to look to the absurd to cushion the trials of everyday
life. Sometimes an author will take me on a much-needed vacation to a place
that refreshes my soul. Sometimes the philosophy of the author comes through
with startling gut-punching clarity and lets me own it.
“What I want is so
simple I almost can’t say it: elementary kindness. Enough to eat, enough to go
around.
The possibility that kids might one day
grow up to be neither the destroyers nor the destroyed.” (from “Animal Dreams” by Barbara
Kingsolver)
You
see?
I
am envious of the skill, in awe of the research, intrigued by the plot twists
and the lives and minds behind them. I love these authors’ willingness to
share. If the seed of the Great American Novel has not taken root in the soil
of my writing, I can at least write about reading.
“Sometimes I’m
asked what my advice would be for emerging writers, and it is always simply, to
read.”
(author Hannah Kent)
“The more that you
read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places
you’ll go.”
(the oh-so-wise Dr. Seuss)
Read
I will continue to do with much frequency. And write too – even if sparsely and
sporadically.
