She Reads Guest Post: Contagious Passion for Reading

My first memories of the written word are like shadows, bouncing from the light of a kerosene lantern as my mother reads. Her voice is full of meaning, emotion, and I am spellbound. Three, maybe four years old, I listen to The Hobbit, and I want to be there, in the pages of that book. I want to be on that great adventure with Bilbo and I want to smell the pungent smoke of Gandalf’s pipe. And in many ways I am there, as the scenes unfold in my mind, painted by my mother’s love of words and the book she holds in her hands.

Chapter after chapter rolls from her tongue, dialogue smooth. She never trips over a word, never hesitates. Slowly, after hours of reading, her voice becomes dry, cracked. Broken. She coughs, and says she’ll continue tomorrow. We beg her to continue. My older brother heats the kettle on the pot belly stove, waiting for the whistle so he can make her a cup of tea: black with lime and honey, just the way she likes it. We cajole. She humors us and continues. Slowly my eyes grow heavy, my mind blurred between story and dream. I drift away, elf songs ringing in my mind. Somehow I have become part of this story and I will never be the same.

My mother loves science fiction and fantasy, so my reading teeth are cut on the likes of C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Patricia McKillip, George MacDonald, and Piers Anthony. I don’t understand much of what she reads at first, but I love the way words roll from her tongue. I love the inflection in her voice. I love that she loves what she’s reading.

And the idea dawns on me that I too, want to read. I want to do it on my own. I want to stand before her bookshelf and choose a thick tome with no pictures, and find a quiet place to curl up and discover mysteries in the written word.

“Mommy one day I’m going to read every book in this house,” I tell her.

And I do.

My passion for reading was caught, not taught.

Can you remember when you first fell in love with books?

And how do we pass this love of words on to our children and grandchildren?

Be Yourself

"Joy in the act of creating ... When was the last time you enjoyed the writing process?" Ariel Lawhon

"Lap up masterful writing. Savor it. Celebrate it. But do not compare your writing to anyone else's." Patti Hill

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Good insight from Ariel and Patti this week. If you haven't yet read their posts, I hope you will.

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To answer Ariel's question, the last time I enjoyed the writing process was ... well, the last time I wrote. But here's the thing. It's been a while. Typically, I love slipping into my fictional world, getting to know my characters -- and often being surprised by them. I love the unfolding of their stories, many of the intricate details unknown even to me until I stumble upon them. I truly love the process.

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But having put my writing aside for the sake of the long holiday season, I'm finding it difficult to get back into the process. My characters knock at the door, telling me all sorts of things about themselves, and wait for me to pick up the thread and get back to weaving. But I look at the loose ends and think, WHAT am I supposed to DO with them? Yeah, there are a lot of morals to this story, like Don't put the writing aside, whatever you do! But that doesn't help me now.

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I mean to get back to it, I really do. Right after I clean the toilet and fold the towels.

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And when I do, I plan to BE MYSELF. I don't plan to copy all those other excellent writers I so want to emulate. The Joy Jordan Lakes, the Elizabeth Bergs, the five fabulous women I blog with. No, I plan to be me. I pledge to be me. If I only knew who that was exactly.

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Years ago I had a Sandi Patty album -- yes album. As I said, it was years ago. There was some humorous dialogue on this live album that comes to mind from time to time. Patti's post jarred it to the surface again. Sandi talks about trying to find who she was as a young singer. In the 10th grade she had a big identity crisis, and was very impressionable. There were a lot of great singers she admired, but she was drawn in particular to Karen Carpenter. She said, "I not only wanted to sing like Karen Carpenter ... I wanted to BE Karen Carpenter." Then she goes on to sing a portion of "Jesus Loves Me," Karen Carpenter style. "I was so immature as a sophomore," she continues. "I realize all of this now because I was such a mature senior in high school, and I realized it was so silly and so ridiculous and so immature of me to want to be Karen Carpenter ... because NOW I wanted to be Barbra Streisand." And again she sings a portion of "Jesus Loves Me," ala the funny girl.

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In the 10th grade I wanted to be Janis Ian, Rembrandt, and Jose Feliciano, in that order. Today I want to be ... I guess more secure in what I do. I want to feel that I've arrived, but I've no clue what that means. I want to write the stories the Lord has planted in my heart, and do it in such a way that they touch other hearts. There's nothing easy about the process, about discovering your voice as a writer, about knowing just how to tell the story that lives in your soul. But "easy" isn't a condition of what we do. Birthing is hard work. It takes the most private parts of you and exposes them to the world.

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But where would we be if Tolkien had ignored the little hobbit in his heart? If Harper Lee hadn't given voice to Scout? If Dickens had never picked up a pen? It makes me sad to even consider it. Many people want to have written. Relatively few want to write. Whose voice may you be silencing with your reticence? What tale may go untold for fear of failure? With the gift of another new year let's pledge to be true to our call, giving birth to the stories only we can tell. Let's be content with the peculiar style that is ours, ever striving to improve our craft, but not held back because we aren't someone else. So thank you, Patti and Ariel. Your words were the swift kick this writer needed. Look at me, I'm weaving again.

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What about you? What story are you NOT telling? What sidetracks you from your writing -- and what gets you back on track? And tell us, who did you want to be in the 10th grade?