a year ago
For almost two months I found myself unable to write and even to pick up a book.
I have been reading books for what seems like forever.
I don’t remember this but my mother once told me I wrote a short story on Red Riding Hood when I was in kindergarten. When I ran into my kindergarten teacher years later, she proudly repeated the same story.
I started first grade at one school and mid year we moved. I was forced to attend a new school with all new faces. On my first day, I walked into the school on my mother’s arm, crying hysterically.
Later that year, my teacher wanted to pull me out of my classroom because she was concerned I was not learning to read as fast as the other children. She told my parents I would start going to a remedial group starting on Monday.
The details are hazy,but on Monday I was reading. On my own. I stayed my ass in my regular classroom.
From that moment on, I read everything and I mean everything I could get my hands on.
I read the Old Testament in a few sittings. I was enthralled by the colorful stories and how different it sounded than the ones portrayed in church. This is the same book filled with stories of people turning into pillars of salt, beauty competitions to become Queen, and scandalous love triangles (Ahem, David).
My dad worked at a public school in a wealthier school district and would bring home old books. We had a bookcase full of textbooks and fiction books. I picked up the Piano Teacher, completely inappropriate for a young girl and was hooked.
I would wander into my older cousin’s room and read whatever book she picked up from the library. I didn’t completely understand what sex was about but I read a lot about it.
Sometimes while wandering through the aisles of bookstores, I vaguely remember reading certain books when I was too young to really appreciate them.
Reading has always been my happy place, the constant thing I go back to no matter what else is going on in my life.
After too many re-reruns of Housewives of Wherever and Love and Hip Hop, I knew I had to find a way to get back into reading. I figured the writing would come back, but reading was the way I stayed sane.
One day while waiting on hubby I wandered into Barnes and Nobles. I lost myself in the first chapter of Octavia Butler's Kindred and even ventured into Ernest Hemingway's A Moveable Feast.
I guess it doesn't matter how lost you are, you always find your way back to what's familiar.