The image that accompanies this text clearly illustrates that I really love to read. It also illustrates how socially awkward people who love to read tend to be. Ha! We snub our noses at liquor [ahem] and at proper etiquette that requires us to sit up, look around and talk to people.
But what those around us fail to realize is that we are already deeply engrossed in conversations of our own. I am one step behind the stubborn detective, whispering words of courage to aid his quest. I am the voice in the young girl’s head singing her mother’s words of wisdom. I am reading back to the old man the last letter his daughter wrote him and I am his late wife calling him over to the Light.
Ok that last one was a little macabre, but hey, that is the thing about the written word. It allows the reader to become a shape-shifter, run forwards and backwards in time, peek through the cracks and empty stairwells of different characters’ minds.
Let’s go back to the picture. Notice the cool ‘Peace’ sign? Can you sense the excitement in the air? [Hehe] I had just read the most hilarious passage in the book that lay on my lap and my friend thought it was appropriate to capture the moment. Looking back at it now, I realize that it is a little awkward to have sat there on the concrete steps of a building as all around me young people partied, danced and had a great time.
But there I was, amid all the chaos, reading my book. Why? Because there is something magical about the written word. Plus there’s a little invisible rabbit lurking behind every page teasing you to move forward with the tale. Ha! I kid!
I can’t recall the first time I picked up a book, but I’m sure it was my late father who pressed it between my palms. Every birthday and good grade was marked by a brand new book; be it a dictionary, bedtime storybook or funny little book of fables.
Plus, he always had a book for every occasion. During the turbulent first years of boarding school after my mother’s passing he sent me the sweetest bedtime storybook. When I turned 15 [I think] he bought me a book about Kikuyu culture. He even got me a book about the Saint I was named after at Confirmation so that I could emulate her life. So for me, my father was [and still is] a big inspiration behind why I read. And to a greater extent, he is the reason why I write.
See, I was fortunate to find in him a doting father and a cool friend. Throughout my childhood right up to my adolescence, we read and discussed everything from Disney classics to Harry Potter! He made me realize the potency of words and the joy of storytelling. And when I was away from home we wrote each other long, funny and encouraging letters.
Letters, ah, that lovely means of communication. There again the love for the written was ignited. In school I learned how to write compositions and learned basic story structure, but writing letters expanded that ability to tell a story in the most vivid and colourful manner.
As with all children, eventually I grew up and moved away from the Classics and started reading a few risqué writers -Mills and Boons and such [who didn’t!] and discovered many other worlds along the way. The knowledge they give me is immense and there is always more to read!
How an author writes is an important part of the reading process. We learn a lot about both exotic and ordinary places through the written word. In fact, some books still stay with me, lingering in my thoughts and painting my dreams. They make me restless and eager to see the world. I start to feel like I’ve sat much too long in one place. And sometimes my heart yearns to feel the bite of winter and the joy of summer. My eyes long to watch the graceful final dance of leaves in autumn. And my body desires the anticipation of spring.
Why? Because someone took my hand and guided me into their world through ink on a page.
But what makes a good writer is their audacity. Here I mean the honesty and realness of their work. Take Stephen King or Paulo Coelho for instance. They are masters of the written word and can spin a good yarn, but what impresses me most about these guys is that they deal with human nature head-on. They rip perceptions and taboos to shreds and invite readers to engage with real issues. Such joy!
And as I take up my own pen and put it to paper I see the path that the written word has chart for me. It has been my friend and confidant [I confess, I have spoken to a book many, many times] and I hope to be faithful to the very end.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways
By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely as they turn from Praise
I love thee with passion out to use
In my old griefs, and with childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,–I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! —and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
