The other day and probably days as well, I wrote about why I write. Why I can’t stop writing is a better question.
A short while ago, I was taking a bath, am taking a bath, when I got the urge to wrote about reading.
It didn’t help that I was reading an article written by Walter Dean Myers, one of my favorite children’s authors. He wrote about his first book. First book is right up there with first love.
I do remember stumbling upon Babar the Elephant and the text was in cursive. I started stringing my letters together, creating my own font.
Mrs. Tinker unlocked that mystery of the cursive code.
I picked Blueberries in our woods at the end of Pinecroft Road which is why I loved Blueberries For Sal. Never did run into any bears.
There were times my reading appetite matched my two hollow leg food appetite, especially in the summers when The Weston Public Library celebrated verocious readers and encouraged a healthy competition. I wish the library had listed the number of books I read on the certificate of achievement.
I have fond memories of books like James and the Giant Peach. The Phantom Tollbooth.
During my months of focusing on becoming a reading specialist, K-12, I came across Make Way For Ducklings. A therapeutic discovery. I remembered the book, especially the illustrations. My grandmother used to take me to the Duck Pond to ride the Swan Boat and feed the ducks.
There are more reasons why I read than I could list. Reading entertains. It allows me to escape when reality is driving me crazy. Reading helps me cope.
Reading helps me sleep. Sometimes. Sometimes it winds the clock and not quiet the voices. But most of the time it lulls me to sleep, especially when I hear the songs in sentences. Sometimes the prose is so convoluted and intellectual that it takes both sides of my brain to decode and comprehend that worries and concerns get chased to the corners of my mind, to mix in with cobwebs and stuff not swept up.
Last night I started a new book. Not a good sign that I cannot remember the title or Author. Something about not worrying. Maille might be the first name.
I calculated how many pages I needed to read before it was due at the Eugene Public Library. Twenty-four pages. I read eighty-one. Great sign since I am a slow reader.
A reading teacher probably shouldn’t admit to the world this problem, though this blog is far from addressing the world, and why do I think reading slow is a problem.
I hear about people who read a book a day. My attention span doesn’t allow me to do this. When I do need to read for an extended amount of time or need to get something read, I sequester myself. Baths are great. Going to bed an hour or so early gives me a nice cushion to read.
Reading time needs to be valued more by society. I am sure that when I exclaim that I read X number of books this summer, a few people might applaud my effort, but most would want to know what I did.
I want to know about your reading stories. Do you remember childhood books? How about now? Do you make time for reading? How many books do you read? Do you count by days, weeks, months or years?
My main goal is to read more books this year than last year, though it will take a lot to match the year of my Reading Endorsement studies.