Just a bit of earth. A teenage detective. A great man who falls victim to justice.
I’m in the backseat of my dad’s Chrysler New Yorker, the scent of coconut and cigarette smoke filling my nose, and I’m reading just about every Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys Super Mystery ever written. I’m somewhere between 10 and 12 and we are driving from Eugene, Oregon to my oma’s (that’s grandma in German) house in Salinas, California. I remember a story where the super mystery solving teams are out camping and they catch the culprit based on her addiction to pink nail polish. I remember Nancy’s mustang and her attraction to Frank Hardy- so riskque considering her oh so special relationship with Ned. (for the record, I’d pick one of the Hardy Boys.)
I’m fifteen years old and switching schools for my sophomore year of high school. I’m in the advanced English class so of course we have summer reading and papers to write. I’m lazy but I like to read so I get through the books, but procrastinate writing my paper. (it was about Inspector Javier) I consider Les Miserables by Victor Hugo to be one of my favorite books. I get a C on my paper (which was proofed by my aunt, a college English teacher and deemed excellent) because I say things like “mankind” instead of “humankind.” Oh well, at least I got a good book out of the deal.
A love of words and books was fostered in me from birth by my mom and her family. It started with my mom reading Brier Rabbit (and doing the voices!), Cinderalla (it was one of my favorites), and A Little Princess and progressed into the all day reading binges of my formative years.
One of my favorite things to do is read a book. A nice, long book that overtakes an entire day. The feel, the smell, the words blurring together as I blink them into focus because I HAVE to know what happens next. Staying up until 3am to finish a book without regret for the lost sleep is so rewarding. So, why is it that I can’t seem to connect with any books I’m reading? Where is that thirst? That anxiety? Where is that physical, psychological and emotional connection to the written word?
Have I changed? Have I just been picking up the wrong books for the last 6 months?
When I was growing up I relied heavily on books for entertainment and fulfillment. Now, I am by no means fulfilled in life, so shouldn’t I still need books for that? Dammit, my tortured soul still needs to live vicariously though the imaginary lives of others!
