Reading

As I sit at my desk and look into the bookshelves opposite me, all I see are old friends. The spines of the books that line the shelves have stories, personal stories that do not always have the same story as the one written within. There are the places I was when I bought any given book. Or the places that I read the book, also a question. There are the people in my life, or formerly in my life, who suggested a given book. And there are, of course, many books I am yet to read. I consider the unread books friends too, although we are yet to be acquainted.

Some books are the reminders of lovers. Some are the reminders of times long ago when I was young, or I felt like the world was young. Some books are the reminders of times when I was lost, or not well. Some are the reminders of the good times. Books, those vessels of knowledge, humanity, peace and the divine that cannot be discarded, lost or otherwise seen as outdated or outmoded.

It seems like so many of us are reading things via electronic devices. I am not above this, not at all. I have a computer and therefore the Internet. I have an electronic reader too. And although I can appreciate the convenience and the seemingly unlimited supply of books, media, information, etc., I prefer a book. A book, an honest-to-goodness book with pulp and ink should never be taken from us in favor of a screen somehow connected to the ether.

When I think of books, especially the books I like to read, I think of the stories, the characters and this elicits those recesses of my mind that I wish were on the forefront all the time. When reading, I tax my imagination in such a way that it's almost like I've climbed out of my body and into the scenes which I read. My body can be comfortably reclined in my chair, and I'm suddenly in treacherous waters soon to be lost forever. The beauty of a story, of reading a story, quite simply is that you can suddenly feel something different, something new, and experience the world.

I meet a great many people, and I always have. I feel as if I have mastered the art of small talk. I can chat with almost anyone about almost anything. Although I am not well versed in organized sports or politics or what's happening on TV, I can talk at end about the weather. When the conversation shifts to the inevitable “So, what do you do?” I say that I'm a writer. Even though I have not been a writer exclusively, I have been a full time writer for over a decade. I just say those words, “I'm a writer.” Then I wait for what comes next. The person I talk to falls into one of these categories: 1) I know a writer, 2) I have a story for you, you can write it, or 3) I'm not really a reader.

Not really a reader.

This is much more common that I wish it was. It's true, most people are not readers. It's sad. Some people will read the news and suchlike, and although it's still reading, it is somehow not the same. And then there are the people who wish they could read more than they do. I understand that all too well. I know what it's like to work long hours and then have the strenuous home life raising small children, who can bring both great joy and great sleep deprivation.

In those early years raising my son, I was so tired I could barely focus on the wall much less a book. And I think that's okay. I mean, it's more important to raise a family, to focus on the health and welfare of small children than to while away the hours reading a book. But these times do not last. For us, and this is the case even now, but we read books together. Although I do not find most children's books intellectually stimulating, I appreciate them for what they do for my son as we read together. I can see the way the stories excite him. We read a great many books, and it is my wish that he will grow up with a love of reading that keeps him ever growing and always learning.

My son is still very young. We've gotten to the point where we've started to read much more advanced books to him. He has listened to the entire Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I must admit, the Laura character is very compelling. The narrator's descriptions of life in the wild American frontier are at once beautifully accurate and historically perfect. After a session of reading these stories, my son has questions about what the world was like in Laura's time, and whatever we cannot answer, we can look up. What I find, at least in him, he's learning not only about the world the author knew, he's learning about the construction of a story and he's learning new words and nuances of language.

In a way, I feel like my son is very lucky. Both his parents, my wife and I, are readers. There is no television in our home. There are no distracting screens. When we are at home, we have to choose more active entertainment. There is never a lack of anything to do, and there is no short supply of imagination. I fear there will come a point in my son's life when he will start to lose ground with his classmates and friends because their interests in TV shows and video games will alienate him. We'll see how that one pans out. In the meantime, he either reads or he is read to, and that's a great thing.