I’ve always been a reader. Books, words, writing have all been a part of my DNA for as long as I’ve been aware.
Third grade, I remember I pilfered some book my sister (at that point a freshman in high school) was reading. It was about anorexia and I remember I told my Sunday School class about it at prayer request time.
There was also some book called Don’t Hurt Laurie that I read and Laurie had to put up with some shit. She had an abusive mother and a clueless stepdad.
RL Stine scared the piss out of me in sixth grade. I never got any of those books at the library or anything like that – I’m unsure why. Probably I was too scared. The one or two that I did read I think came from friends or something similar. I know my mom never would have allowed me to buy them.
There always seemed to be so much to read when I was younger. So much that I would love and get lost in. Like the TV Kid, I think it was – he gets bitten by a rattlesnake under a house and makes a tourniquet. There were other things that happened in that book but I have no clue what they are.
Now? Not so much.
I mean sure, there are classics that I haven’t read and they will perpetually be on some mental list that I gradually check off.
But there is a fundamental thrill of losing myself in a story that I have apparently lost. Once I could devour a story, live in the universe and befriend every character numerous times.
I don’t have that anymore.
Any suggestions? I am currently plowing through the Song of Ice and Fire series as it is now – just so that I can say I did it.