Okay,
I'm just gonna come out and say it ...
I
love books. I love reading. I love the written
word. Books, magazines, newspapers, comic strips, cookbooks, cereal
boxes, the Bible, even school textbooks. (You don't go on to graduate school
to get a master's degree in psychology if you can't stand school and
reading!)
It
doesn't matter what it is, I love to read.
[Except
the news. I hate the news. I have for years because there's always
a terrible story that breaks your heart and then you can't get it out of your
mind. But I hate it even more so now,
with all the political and virus stuff. And so I've basically been on an
almost-total "news fast" since last fall. It's too
depressing. Too political. Too biased. Too manipulative.
And that's one of the reasons I decided to get away from it all, from all the
heavy stuff, the virus, the vaccine, the politics, the hopelessness of
everything as it all falls apart. (There's a quote I've always loved,
along the lines of this: "Sometimes falling apart is
really just falling into place." Dear God, please let
everything be falling into place, even if it looks to us like it's all falling
apart.)
And
so I'm going to focus on - and write about - something I love:
Books (among other random things, here and there). These posts won't
be scholarly or in-depth or anything. I'm just gonna share the
highlights, my thoughts and feelings about what I read, the impressions I get,
the things I feel like talking about, etc. Nothing grand or important or
earth-shattering. Just for fun. Completely self-indulgent. To
get myself out of my head (a dark place sometimes) and get absorbed in
something I enjoy. And so books it is!]
And
I've always loved writing too. In fact, my favorite assignments in school
were always ones related to writing.
Once
we had to follow an ant for 15 minutes and then write about what it did.
Ah, good times. I remember laying face-down over a backyard swing,
superman-style, and watching an ant try to hide what I thought was a grain of
rice. He went from crack-to-crack, trying to find a spot to cram it
in. But it was always too big, and so he never did find a place to hide
it, at least not before I got bored of watching him and went off to write my
paper about how he kept trying and trying to shove the "grain of
rice" in a crack.
And
I remember that we once had to write and design our own newspaper. (The
only "article" I remember was the one I wrote about Charles
Lindbergh's kidnapped baby - sad!) This is one of the few assignments I
remember to this day because it was one of my favorites. I totally
enjoyed the whole process, from research to writing to planning the layout and
printing up copies on my step-dad's old, gigantic copier. It's a great
experience that every kid should try sometime. (If you have a good family
or neighborhood, encourage your kids to make a "family/neighborhood
paper," where they can interview the people they know or research/write
about relevant topics, and then they can print up copies to pass out.
That'd be fun, almost makes me wish I were young again so that I could do it
myself. I totally would. I'd love it! And it makes a great
homeschooling project, one I wish I could bring myself to assign to my
kids. But they totally wouldn't. They'd hate it!)
And
I remember another assignment, in about 4th or 5th grade, that I really loved:
Write a short non-fiction story. My dream assignment! I was
thrilled with the possibilities, the blank page, the story waiting to be
written. (In fact, buying pens and new notebooks is still one of my
greatest delights to this day. I enjoy shopping for school/art supplies
far more than I do clothes, jewelry, or shoes. It's twisted, I
know.)
That
night I worked feverishly on my story, picking the right topic, searching for
best details to include, finding the right wording to really make it
sing. And in class the next day, even though I am naturally a shy
wallflower, my hand was the fastest to fly up when the teacher asked who wanted
to read their story first.
Yes! Me! I go first!
I
walked to the front of the classroom, smiled, took a deep breath, and began by
reading my title: "Puppies From Outer Space!" (I remember it
clearly! Oh, the horror!)
Yeah!
That's right. I had misunderstood what non-fiction meant,
and so I wrote a "non-fiction" story about puppies from space.
"You
don't know what non-fiction means, do you?" my teacher asked, as I stood
there in front of everyone, shifting from one foot to the other, my eyes the
size of saucers.
"No,"
I mumbled, sensing the tsunami of embarrassment approaching.
"It
means a true story," she said, sympathetically, embarrassed for me.
"But you can finish reading your story anyway." (I'd rather
pass out right now in front of everyone, thankyouverymuch!)
I
was never more mortified in my life (till that point) than having to stand up
there reading my "true story" about stupid puppies from stupid outer
space, with everyone in the class knowing I got it wrong while they all got it
right. I could barely breathe the whole time I was reading. I
wanted it over as quickly as possible. I wanted the earth to open up
and swallow me whole. (That'd really give them something to write about
for their next non-fiction story!) And when I was done reading my stupid
story, I put my head down, walked to my seat without looking at anyone, and
didn't hear a word of all that was said the rest of the class.
Oh
well! Life goes on. It wasn't the first (or last) time I'd
embarrass myself (like the time I wet my stupid pants during the 8th-grade
"field day" and had to wear them the rest of the day, or when I
accidentally pulled off my shirt in front of the whole school during that same
stupid field day during a game called "the suitcase race" where you
pile on a bunch of stupid clothes from a stupid suitcase then run down the yard
and take them off to give them to the next stupid person, or when I
accidentally streaked naked in front of our new neighbors because my husband
didn't tell me that they came over to introduce themselves and were sitting in the
stupid living room that I just calmly and nakedly sauntered past when I got out
of the shower and went to our bedroom for a towel. I could go on, but you
get the picture.)
Anyway,
while it embarrassed me at the time, I laugh about it now (about all of it -
life's heavy enough without carrying the weight of embarrassment with you
too). And it did nothing to dampen my love of writing and reading.
To me, it's one of life's greatest delights to dive deep into the written
word. To curl up with a good book on a comfy chair, especially if it's
raining or snowing outside. I love talking to friends about the good
books we read (Just Give Me Jesus, The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, Wind in
the Willows, Anne of Green Gables) and the bad (Lord of the Flies, 1984,
Sense and Sensibility - I probably just made a lot of people mad with
that one). I love reading books about people who talk about the books
they read. And my favorite way to waste my time is walking around a
library or bookstore with a cup of coffee in hand - nowhere to be, nothing to
do, just wandering and dreaming and exploring the possibilities. (My
preference is for used-book stores, because it's so random what books you'll
find, like digging for old, buried treasure or stumbling across long-forgotten,
priceless gems. Book Stores: The best way to waste a few good hours.)
Every
book is a new world waiting to be explored - an invitation to go on a new
journey, to visit new places, to learn something you didn't know before, to
gain from other people's experiences and wisdom, to dream big, to see the
impossible become possible, to climb into someone else's mind and life, to
leave your concerns behind for a little while without ever leaving your home,
to find new friends or kindred spirits. When I buy a book, I'm not just
buying a book; I'm buying several hours of adventure, of vacation, a
much-needed break from the concerns or doldrums of life.
C.S.
Lewis (a favorite, an addiction!) said that we read books in order to know we
are not alone (and that there is no cup of tea big enough and no book long
enough to suit him, and that the books worth reading at the age of ten are also
those worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond). Paul Sweeney says
that we know it's a good book when finishing the last page makes us feel a
little like we lost a friend. Bill Patterson says that you should spend
rainy days at home with a cup of tea and a good book. Anne Lamott says
that books help us to understand ourselves better and what it means to be a friend,
how to live and how to die. Mortimer J. Adler says that the point of
books is not to see how many you get through, but how many get through
you. George R.R. Martin says that those who read live a thousand lives,
but those who don't read live only one. And Elizabeth Barrett Browning
said that no one can be called "friendless" when they've got God and
the "companionship of good books." (I also collect quotes,
though I have no idea who a couple of these people are.)
I
understand this. I feel it too.
If
you've ever run your hand over the front of a particularly beautiful
book (my gorgeous, new The Princess Bride) ... or sighed
deeply, lingering over a particularly meaningful part you just read, and then
reread it ... or mourned the approaching end of a book from the day you
started it ... or been excited about a new bookcase because you couldn't wait
to line up all your books on the shelves so that you could step back and stare at
them (or been envious of your friend's beautiful wall of handmade built-in
bookcases) ... or found yourself wanting to weasel out of a family obligation
because it falls on the same day as the library's "used book sale"
... or gone to the used-book store one day, then went back the next day because
you realized they had one you forgot you wanted, and then went back the third
day "just to see if they got anything new" (while trying to hide from
your spouse that you were going back again) ... or began to sense a
trapped, panicky feeling rising up in your chest because you found yourself
unexpectedly waiting somewhere for a few minutes and you had no
book ... or put the bookmark in a good book, closed it, and then
compared the thickness of the "already read" part to the "still
need to read" part, hoping and praying that you had a lot more ahead of
you than behind you ... then you can probably understand too.
You
know, I used to think that books shouldn't be damaged in any way, that you
shouldn't bend the bindings or dog-ear the pages or leave any pen marks or crinkles
of any kind. That it should look like a new book. Out of respect
(or in case you gave it away to someone else).
But
... I don't know. I'm starting to think (and I'm gonna horrify a lot
of people with this) that the best way to respect a book is to love it so
much that you leave marks on it, to show the world that it's been read and
reread and loved. It should have creases and a bent binding to show that
someone opened it over and over again, that they lingered over certain
sections. It should have dog-eared pages, marking the journey of stops
and starts the reader took. It should have underlining or asterisks or
notes scribbled in the margin (if it's a basic, cheap paperback, or if you have
multiple copies), showing what meant the most to you and the thoughts the book
inspired. Your favorite books should show that they lived a good life,
that they've been on a journey with you, that they meant something, that they
were worth it.
The
stuffed animal that looks brand-new - perfect stitching, shiny fur, no dirt
marks or scratches or worn-out bare patches - was never really loved.
It's the one who's threadbare in spots, whose stitching is coming loose and
stuffing is coming out and eyes are dangling, who's got streaks of dirt all
over because it was held all the time and dragged everywhere ... that's the
stuffed animal who was truly loved. The wise skin-horse in The
Velveteen Rabbit (a favorite!) says it best, that (paraphrased)
being truly loved hurts sometimes, that it leaves you with your hair rubbed
off, your eyes falling out, and your joints loose and shabby, but that's when
you know you've been really loved, and that's what makes you
real.
I
don't want to look at my books decades from now and wonder if I even read them,
if I liked them. I don't want them to look like I never opened
them. Like they were never loved. That they never mattered.
What a waste of a book's life.
And
so, as much as it goes against my perfectionistic streak, I have been folding
pages and scribbling notes in the margins (of everyday-type books, not classic
novels or beautiful hard-cover, collector-type books with thick, glossy pages -
I'm not a monster!), leaving my fingerprints on the books I plan on keeping,
letting them be a kind of diary for me of the journey I've been on with
them.
(It
even makes me smile when I get a used book and see the notes other people have
scribbled in margins, or the child's name written in the front of the
book. I love to know that someone once loved the book I now held in my hands.
That it has a history. It's been
on a journey that I get to be a part of. Although, I do not like to see a
lot of underlining or highlighting. You know, the kind where people
highlight or underline almost every paragraph or every other sentence. It's
distracting to the eye. Besides, if every single sentence is that meaningful,
then what's the point of marking any of it?)
You
know what I wish? I wish that I thought
of doing these "book" posts a long time ago, before I read and read
and read! I would love to have a list of all the books I've read over the
years and what I thought about them. I would love to have chronicled my
reading journey as I went along. Oh well! It gives me a good excuse
to go back someday and read some of them over again.
(And I would like to apologize in advance about this: I am not going to allow comments. I wish I could. I would love to "talk" with other book lovers. But when I used to allow comments, all I got was too much spam and almost no real comments. And so to protect my time and sanity, I'm not allowing comments.)
And totally "just for fun," click here for some inspirational quotes to make your day. 😉
(And fyi: Apparently blogger is getting rid of their "follow by email" button, and I don't know how that affects my blog and your access to it. It may mean that the subscription button no longer works. But since I don't know what to do about that, I'm not going to do anything. Sorry for the inconvenience.)
Well, I am off now, heading to a used-book sale. Wish me luck!
