Why I Read

I was reading a post today by Charlie over at Smart Girls Love SciFi about how she introduced her sister to Laurell K Hamilton's books and how they shared that story with the author. Charlie asked her readers if a book or story has brought them closer to someone else.

That got me thinking about how I started reading and why and you know what? I have no idea what made me start. I don't remember being read to as a kid but I do remember always borrowing books from the school library. Our bookcase at home was only about a metre high with three shelves and it was only ever half full. My mum tells me that when I was in primary school, I told her books were my best friend. And looking back on it, I think the avid reading habits started after my dad died. Maybe I was consoled by books, I don't know, but I don't really remember being on a friendly basis with the school librarians before Year 4.

Then I got to high school and was forced to read. I stopped reading for pleasure, only read what I had to and, for the most part, hated what I read. I've had friends in the past tell me how lucky I was to have read 'The Hobbit' in Year 9, to actually get to read fantasy and SciFi books for school (we also had to read 'The Day of the Triffids'). But reading for the thrill of it and reading to dissect the crap out of it while leeching all the joy out of the novel are two very different things.

Once I was in Years 11 and 12 however, my reading started to take a turn back to the old days from childhood and I blame Miles Franklin and Mark Twain for it. I at once loved and hated Sybylla from 'My Brilliant Career'. The difficult friendship between Huck and Jim from 'Huckleberry Finn' was actually rather heartbreaking in its restrictions. Through these two authors, I learned to enjoy reading again, regardless of the dissection that followed.

When I was at uni, I was shown the SciFi/Fantasy genre by my then boyfriend and I've never looked back. It's one of the few things I should have thanked him for. 'Beauty' by Sheri Tepper introduced me to a whole new world, a completely different world to the one I knew. And when I was in the final years of me degree, reading became my escape. I read about fairies and dragons and all things mystical to remove myself from the harsh reality of the science I studied. In short, I was giving my brain a rest by exercising it in a different way.

I've since gone back and re-read both 'The Hobbit' and 'The Day of the Triffids'. While I've changed my stance on the latter, I'm still not in awe of the former. 'Beauty' I've avoided re-reading, because I don't want to be disappointed. I want my rose coloured glasses kept on for that one.

As for the why I read? I've mentioned it before here and here but I'll re-iterate for the lazy - I still read to escape, but not the harsh reality of my life. My life isn't that harsh. I've got it pretty easy, quite frankly, and I'm very grateful for that. My escape is to other worlds, other lives and loves. An escape to another country or time. You can travel the world in books, both real and unreal, seen and unseen. Experience so much without risking yourself in the process.

It would appear that books have been there for me throughout my life. I don't know if, after my dad died, someone pointed me to the fiction section of the library and said "reading will help you feel better" or if I came to it myself. If I was already reading before that, then I must have come to it somehow.

Regardless of the hows, I'm very glad I did.