Anna shares her love of reading with her niece Rosemary
I began reading because I liked it. That sounds simple, almost quaint, but it’s the truth. I am a lover of stories, and these books — amazing books — carried the stories. Also, reading was something I could do by myself; that is no small thing for a kid. While pretty much anything else I wanted to do depended on an adult (to help me, to take me someplace, to give me permission), picking up a book to read depended on no one but myself. It was probably my very first act of independence.
My reading habit was further also fed by how portable books are — I could take them with me on long car rides , on camping trips in the American Midwest, on the school bus, to the babysitter’s house. Stories didn’t require me to be in any particular place: they came with me, whenever I wanted them to.
I’ll admit that reading, too, was an ego-boost for me as a kid. This muddled with my motivations to pick up books. In school, my second-grade teacher praised me for reading aloud quickly — meaning that I wasn’t stumbling over words when it was my turn to read in class. This immediately inspired me to go as fast as possible whenever I read aloud — meaning, I started to stumble over words.
The show-off in me also glowed when grown-ups and schoolmates seemed impressed when I carried thick books around. In third grade, our class read the first chapter of a thin chapter book aloud, a little biography of Helen Keller. When we finished, Mrs. Thurkettle said to us all, “There! You just read your first chapter in a chapter book!” She clapped our hands to applaud us. And I distinctly remember sitting in my chair and thinking something along the lines of: “Oh, please. Been there, done that.”
But if reading were only about ego — something I only did for praise — I would’ve left it behind long ago. For me, reading is a love story … the joy I take in discovering stories, most of all. But also discovering places and language, things made-up and things historical, sadness and humor. The joy of letting my imagination stream alongside the words on the page, meeting up with and diverging from what the author imagined when the book was written. It inspires me to make up stories of my own. It is exciting. It is fun. The reason for reading is not duty, but delight.
