My grandmother used to read to me throughout the day. She'd set an alarm clock, 15 minutes to do her chores, 15 minutes to read to me. I suspect she fudged the timing, but it didn't matter.
As soon as I learned to read, I read Beverly Gray, Honey Bunch, Maida, Twins, the books published by Bennet Cerf's Random House for children that ignited my love of history and biography.
In school I read assigned books I loved and books I didn't. I don't care if its classic, there's some books I wouldn't have read if not forced. This was true even at university as an English major. Yes, I bought Cliff Notes, but I read the books as well.
As far as CliffNotes is concerned, I'm tempted to buy some of the classics I've missed such as War and Peace.
Now as an adult with eclectic reading habits, I reserve the right to not finish a book, to read two books at the same time, to right notes in the books that I will pass on, although when I put a chocolate fingerprint on a library book, I identified it in a note and apologized. I didn't want the next reader to think it was something else less desirable.
I was in the middle of my doctorate when I discovered my "reader" -- it was a British university where one had readers, disliked almost every modern author I liked and I disliked almost every one he liked, so I dropped out. I didn't need to be Dr. Donna anyway and one reason I was doing the program was to have my writing evaluated. The book he said would never be published was. Family Value. A university had worked great for my masters at Glamorgan in Wales, where the critics could be brutal too. Brutal is fine to improve one's writing but there was a difference, almost a maliciousness in my reader's comments.
One of the wonderful things about my age is that I can do what I want. Like an author -- read everything -- dislike a book half way through, discard it. I can pick and choose, but the one thing I cannot choose is not to read.
No comments:
Post a Comment