I’m a giant bookworm. Have been since I arrived at kindergarten knowing how to read, without anyone knowing how I learned since no one actively taught me. In Montessori preschool, we were free to learn whatever we wanted, with multiple kind, approachable teachers there to help, so that’s probably where it happened. I don’t remember my parents reading to me much, if ever, but they were always reading, so it makes sense that we kids modeled that behavior. My whole family reads, though I don’t know if any of them took it to the level of near-obsession that I have at times.
I did the math, and, estimating that I’ve averaged two books a week since I was ten years old, which is about when I started reading at an adult level, I’ve read over 4,000 books. When I’m busy or reading something long and dense it’s less than that, and of course I’ve read many favorites multiple times. But at times it’s been closer to a book a day, occasionally slightly more. So I figure it balances out.
I really love to write and talk about books, but I want to go well beyond book reviews. Who gives a shit what I think about their favorite book, or the one they thought was crap, or the one they thought they were supposed to like but secretly didn’t? And I don’t have enough sway at this point for my praise to put food on my favorite authors’ tables (though some of them could probably use it). So what do I want to say?
I want to talk about not just books, but the romance of reading—why I wanted to do it so much, why others might not have, what fills that space for non-readers, and what the future holds for bookworms in a world of bombastic, instant electronic entertainment.
Make no mistake—I like that stuff, too. Video games are amazing, and they don’t deserve the bad rap they get from the literati. (I read a meme about that, which I will put here if I can find it.) Of course I love movies and TV, too. But when I turn to these forms of entertainment more often than books, something gets off-kilter inside of me. I don’t feel like myself, and my thoughts become darker and uglier. I tend more toward irritable tension and depression. I even feel worse physically sometimes, and other than the documented effects of blue light on our brains and bodies, I can’t really explain that. I don’t move around more or eat better when I’m reading versus watching TV, for example. But reading does me good in a way that nothing else does. I guess reading is self-care for me, to use a modern buzzword.
Now that I’m a writer, too, I want to talk to other writers about world-building: those places you go to in your head that don’t exist in the real world, and how they came to be. Readers (and players, and viewers) have those too, whether they created them themselves or from the work of others. What’s yours? Where do you go when you need comfort or a mental refuge?
abookwormaubade 