The Life of a Lost Literary

The Life of a Lost Literary
Reading has always been a major part of my life. I learned to do so at a very young age and was devouring books by age four. I remember a plethora of books always being around our house. From Goodnight Moon, to puzzle and maze books, to Snowy Day and Tar Beach, books were everywhere and best of all, my mom was willing to read to me. I remember her hatred of anything created by Disney or, as she put it, “those darn Berenstain Bears.” As I got older, she read me and my sister longer serialized chapter-books like Little House on the Prairie and Betsy and Tacy. I have distinct memories of my mom’s voice as I lay in bed fighting to stay awake and begging for one more chapter.

The most important book in my early childhood was easily A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett. It was given to me on my sixth birthday, my first chapter-book. My mom had included it in the many books she read aloud to me during those early years, and I fell in love. The story of privileged little Sara Crewe going from riches to rags to riches enchanted me. I loved everything about the story: her love of her Papa, her ability to tell stories to cheer up the other scullery maids, the strange Indian friend and how she never truly lost hope in her situation. She remained sweet, innocent and sincere all through her ordeal that was so foreign to my own life. The difference in our situations is probably what most attracted me to the story. While Sara was an only child who was raised in a single-parent exotic Indian household, sent to a boarding school in dreary London and subsequently orphaned, I was and am the happy product of two loving parents, many siblings and a life-long homeschooling career.

The next stage in my literary career is one I often look back on with envy. These were my transitive years, growing from picture books to chapter books was huge step for me. Titles like The Boxcar Children, The Littles, and Nancy Drew kept me company when my little sister, Lynde, would not. I learned so much from the characters in these stories: Tenacity from Henry, Jessie and Violet Alden; courage from Tom and Lucy Little; and wit and wisdom from Nancy Drew. In fact, I still try to keep a change of clothes in the trunk of my car, just like Nancy Drew did. These are the characters I look back on with the most delight and warmth, the mentors of my youth. As I grew older, my reading interests became greatly varied and completely insatiable. I read a little bit of everything: fiction, fantasy, science-fiction, drama, historical fiction, everything. My voracious reading was, I’m sure, the bane to my poor mother’s existence. She would send me to do school work or chores and I would disappear into my books for hours.

In high school, my ability to read for pure pleasure dropped off considerably. I realized that I would not accomplish anything if I was in the middle of a non-school related book. I have always been an incredibly fast reader, so I took to solely reading books that my mom called “trash lit.” These were books of the Mary Higgins Clark variety; fast-paced, engaging, and entirely empty of meaning. Long enough to use as a break from my day, short enough that I could finish it within a few hours. I would go weeks without reading anything for pure enjoyment, then one day I would break down, go to the library and come home with a stack of ten throw-away books. This would turn into a four day binge of solid pleasure reading.
The loss of serious pleasure reading continued on into my college years where I chose to major in English. I ate up the assigned reading but by this point I had totally weaned myself off of reading for the simple joy of it. Although I sincerely missed being able to choose my own literary excursions, I found a multitude of other activities to fill my time. Recently, I have come to attempt to read books of my own choosing, but only in small increments and only multiple books at a time. I have to keep myself distant from the characters; otherwise I fall deeply and desperately into their lives. One of the best examples of this is my relationship with the Harry Potter series. I was eleven when I first received books one through three, and spent the next seven years of my life eagerly awaiting the release date for the next book. The day would arrive, Amazon would deliver to my doorstep early in the morning, and then I would retreat to my room not to be seen again until the book was complete- usually about a day. I would not label myself a fanatic; I have never dressed up for a release, written fan-fiction, or stalked the Harry Potter web pages, but there are few characters in my life that inspire greater fondness and comfort than those of Harry, Ron and Hermione.

As I enter the adult years of my life, I would love to be able to claim the title ‘reader’, however, I feel that would be a lie. I am an English major who does not take the time to read. A walking paradox, I am lost in a world where work must yield tangible results, accomplishment is measured by money and worth is counted by the ability to multi-task. I work constantly. I stifle my imagination. I don’t like to take a moment to breathe. I do, however, find comfort in the fact that I am feeling called back to my roots. There are few times I feel more pleasure than when one of my students asks if she can borrow a Nancy Drew book I saw her pick off my cart not twenty minutes before. While my own life is currently so stifled by self-imposed constraints, I can take solace in knowing that at present, I can be an instructor of literature. I have been given the opportunity to share my passion with the next generation of readers, inspiring them to pursue useful and lasting skills while falling in love with the world of literature- which is, after all, what literaries have always aspired to do.