When I was little, some of my favorite memories are of sitting tucked between the wood stove and the adjacent cabinetry wall, back against the brick facing reading page after page of a good book. Failing that, I would make a air-capturing, furnace-defeating tent over the air grate using an afghan knit by my mother, reading page after page of a good book. I read in the car, on the couch, on the school bus, anywhere I could. I have burned out more flashlights and booklights than you can number over the years. All in the pursuit of a next really good book. A transport to another time, place, feeling.
As a child and later, a teen, I remember hearing my mother say she loved to read, but could never find the time; by the time she dropped into bed she had barely read one page before the book rudely fell against her face, startling her awake. At the time I pitied her, but couldn't comprehend. Now, I get it. I really want those days back when I could lounge somewhere, anywhere, reading as long as I wanted uninterrupted. Guilt-free. It's not that I can't carve time to read, it is just that it comes at a cost somewhere else, and the price is high. I can read, but that means my kids are in front of the tv. I can read, but I'm not spending time with my husband. I can read, but the house is not getting any cleaner. And so, dedicated reading time has become the bastion of sick days and middle of the night. Somewhere in my brain, reading has been categorized as a luxury, or somehow illicit. And like any addict, I don't function without it.
Last year, Mr. Unscripted recognized this and gave me an e-reader. At first, I was excited but cautiously so. You see, I love the sensorial aspects of turning a real, paper and ink book. I love the whisper of pages turning, the musty smell that is only the domain of aging books, and even the varying look and feel of pages of a closed book, smooth or staggered-cut; rough toothed or satin smooth pages. I am the girl who reads what type the book is set in and the history that goes with it. I like the heft of a book in my hand and the visual demarcation of progress as the pages remaining join their earlier compatriots on the left side of my vision.
I did not expect to fall for the technology of the reader. But soon I knew that I loved being able to see the percentage of the book left as a tangible number. I fell in love with the ability to tap a word and get the definition immediately without rising from my comfy spot, thereby alerting the children that Mama was having some grown-up time unsupervised. (And I love words. I love collecting them, using them, knowing them. This was a previously unknown luxury. Words on demand, my people.)
And I loved the ability to highlight a beautiful turn of phrase and save it indefinitely. I always had a journal of phrases and descriptions copied down in the past, and while I loved it, this is so much easier and immediately gratifying. And it's all in one, slim, go-anywhere package. And for the speed with which I was able to pull this up and share it with a fellow book-lover, anywhere. And this is where I really fell hook, line, and sinker. For as much as I love books, I have a horrible ability to summarize them for someone wanting to know what to read next. I never have to struggle for the title, author or summary. I can just open and scroll through. My entire book history, (almost), at my fingertips. And yours too, for the asking.
Recently, Sister Big has started to resist reading. This has been the equivalent of the eldest son refusing to take on the family business. And initially, I did all the wrong things. I insisted, I withheld privileges, and I (shamefully) tried guilting her into reading more. And then a wise local librarian verbally grabbed me by my collar and shook some sense into me. Show your love of reading, she urged me. Carve out time and read, chuckle out loud, gasp audibly, let them know that you can't put the book down because it is just that good. In essence, stop treating reading as something to sneak in between other things, and return it to a place of honor and priority. And, stop sugarcoating the reading material. Let her read something that is just a little bit scary or bold. Let her feel the feels.
And you know what, she is "sneaking" that book to bed with a flashlight now, trying to finish it before I can. No longer waiting for me to read it to her, or with her, she is finding her own reading nest, and carving out that sense of illicit reading wonder. And I for one, pretend not to see the bobbing flashlight as she tries to read one more page without falling asleep. As for me, my house is never "House Beautiful" quality, and lately it is even less so, but life is short and I for one have over five hundred books on my to-read list. The floors can wait.
As a child and later, a teen, I remember hearing my mother say she loved to read, but could never find the time; by the time she dropped into bed she had barely read one page before the book rudely fell against her face, startling her awake. At the time I pitied her, but couldn't comprehend. Now, I get it. I really want those days back when I could lounge somewhere, anywhere, reading as long as I wanted uninterrupted. Guilt-free. It's not that I can't carve time to read, it is just that it comes at a cost somewhere else, and the price is high. I can read, but that means my kids are in front of the tv. I can read, but I'm not spending time with my husband. I can read, but the house is not getting any cleaner. And so, dedicated reading time has become the bastion of sick days and middle of the night. Somewhere in my brain, reading has been categorized as a luxury, or somehow illicit. And like any addict, I don't function without it.
Last year, Mr. Unscripted recognized this and gave me an e-reader. At first, I was excited but cautiously so. You see, I love the sensorial aspects of turning a real, paper and ink book. I love the whisper of pages turning, the musty smell that is only the domain of aging books, and even the varying look and feel of pages of a closed book, smooth or staggered-cut; rough toothed or satin smooth pages. I am the girl who reads what type the book is set in and the history that goes with it. I like the heft of a book in my hand and the visual demarcation of progress as the pages remaining join their earlier compatriots on the left side of my vision.
I did not expect to fall for the technology of the reader. But soon I knew that I loved being able to see the percentage of the book left as a tangible number. I fell in love with the ability to tap a word and get the definition immediately without rising from my comfy spot, thereby alerting the children that Mama was having some grown-up time unsupervised. (And I love words. I love collecting them, using them, knowing them. This was a previously unknown luxury. Words on demand, my people.)
And I loved the ability to highlight a beautiful turn of phrase and save it indefinitely. I always had a journal of phrases and descriptions copied down in the past, and while I loved it, this is so much easier and immediately gratifying. And it's all in one, slim, go-anywhere package. And for the speed with which I was able to pull this up and share it with a fellow book-lover, anywhere. And this is where I really fell hook, line, and sinker. For as much as I love books, I have a horrible ability to summarize them for someone wanting to know what to read next. I never have to struggle for the title, author or summary. I can just open and scroll through. My entire book history, (almost), at my fingertips. And yours too, for the asking.
Recently, Sister Big has started to resist reading. This has been the equivalent of the eldest son refusing to take on the family business. And initially, I did all the wrong things. I insisted, I withheld privileges, and I (shamefully) tried guilting her into reading more. And then a wise local librarian verbally grabbed me by my collar and shook some sense into me. Show your love of reading, she urged me. Carve out time and read, chuckle out loud, gasp audibly, let them know that you can't put the book down because it is just that good. In essence, stop treating reading as something to sneak in between other things, and return it to a place of honor and priority. And, stop sugarcoating the reading material. Let her read something that is just a little bit scary or bold. Let her feel the feels.
And you know what, she is "sneaking" that book to bed with a flashlight now, trying to finish it before I can. No longer waiting for me to read it to her, or with her, she is finding her own reading nest, and carving out that sense of illicit reading wonder. And I for one, pretend not to see the bobbing flashlight as she tries to read one more page without falling asleep. As for me, my house is never "House Beautiful" quality, and lately it is even less so, but life is short and I for one have over five hundred books on my to-read list. The floors can wait.
No comments:
Post a Comment