Balanced on my father’s hip, I was subject to constant
chatter from the time I could open my eyes. The man talked to me, early and
often (dare I say incessantly). Part of our daily interactions included the
reading of books. Though I cannot remember much of such an early part of my
life, I have been assured by my mother that my demands to be read to were often
and emphatic.
I am not sure how or when I first started comprehending the
written words. I do remember one afternoon at some craft shop with my mother
where I read her the various witty sayings hand-painted onto wooden signs. She
was astounded that I could read them, but it felt to me as natural as those
early conversations with my father.
I think it had something to do with the fact that I was an
only child, but it seems like I filled every waking hour with reading. I
preferred novels, but I also remember checking out every volume of Charlie
Brown’s Encyclopedia from my elementary school library. In the world of books
I could escape my loneliness. There whole worlds existed merely for the purpose
of entertaining me and keeping me occupied. Books kept me thoroughly engrossed
in a way that cartoons never did.
My poor parents would often come home from a long day at
work only to be asked for a ride to the local library or book store. Yet they
were very good sports about the whole thing, so supportive of my obsession.
Enablers to my addiction.
Because it was, in reality, an obsession, an addiction. In
my adolescent years and early teens I was basically a shut in. Sure, I went to
school and was involved in various clubs, but where other girls were talking on
the phone about the latest NSYNC album, I was on the couch reading the latest
novel I managed to acquire.
Reading did something to me. It wasn’t just about
interaction with other people (or characters,) though I did enjoy that. It was
the fact that the people in these books were so passionate about various issues
that it led them to take action. They knew what they had to do in those
books, because their hearts and their passions led them to do it. The only
thing I had ever felt passionate about was reading. I envied their certainty
and their subsequent ability to take action.
I am still searching for that passion. I am an adult now,
why am I not experiencing the level of conviction and agency that the
characters in the novels of my youth experienced? Now that I am supposed to be
the heroine of my own life, all I want to do is escape back into the stories of
others. I don’t have the free time that I did as an adolescent, and though I am
still an avid reader, my ability to completely lose myself in a novel is
becoming more and more difficult as my duties in the “real world” increase. So
I am stuck in limbo, unable to act as the heroines of my childhood, yet unable
to completely return to the warm, identity-stealing cocoon of adolescent
fantasy.
What is a pseudo-adult to do? I feel robbed of both my
potential for agency as well as my ability to totally delight in the stories of
others. My literacy has trapped me into an uncomfortable compromise that I
never thought I would have to make. I cannot go back, yet I cannot see how to
go forward. My love has betrayed me. The fanciful narratives I read as a child
have done nothing to prepare me for a life of mediocrity: no one writes novels
about the truly average.
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