Confessions of a Reluctant Reader

I’ve always loved to write, but began life as a reluctant reader. I blame it on the books they used at my school to teach me to read. Back in those days (which was just after we stopped chiseling stories into rocks), kids learned to read through a series of books that featured Dick and Jane. The first book opened with an artist’s rendering of a little boy with black hair, wearing a white T-shirt, navy shorts and sneakers. The caption read, “See Dick.” Page two showed an illustration of the same boy running, with the caption, “See Dick run.” Page three: “Run, Dick, Run.” Page four: “Run, run, run.” Obviously, you had to keep reading to find out what was chasing Dick. Was it a monster? A ghost? A runaway go-cart? Spoiler alert: it was just a little boy running for fun. To his credit, Dick did more than just run. He owned a dog named Spot and the two played fetch. Dick also climbed trees and when it rained, jumped in mud puddles. Because I was a tomboy, I did everything Dick did. Our only difference was my family dog was a silver Weimaraner named Skoshi. Getting back to the series: Next, we were introduced to the “Jane” character. Unlike Dick in his play-clothes, Jane wore a dress! I don’t need to tell you that tomboys do NOT like dresses! Jane also sported a bow in her hair. Even if you ignored the girly wardrobe, her main source of entertainment was having tea parties with her dolls. What self-respecting tomboy did that? The Jane character had the potential to mess with my self-esteem. What if our differences made me believe something was wrong with me? Why wasn’t I more like Jane? Instead, I demanded, “What is up with that kid? Why doesn’t she own a pair of shorts and a T-shirt? Why won’t she play fetch with Dick and Spot?” That was the gist right there: the well-intentioned author (I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt here) created a character that I couldn’t relate to. Three years later, my third-grade teacher lined up the class on a monthly basis, and led us down the hall to our school library. We were allowed to take out any book we wanted. Once inside, kids scattered to claim books about astronauts or cowboys, dinosaurs or mermaids. I walked straight to the low shelves. That was where the librarian kept the skinny books. In my wisdom, I determined that skinny books equaled fewer pages. Fewer pages equaled fewer words, and fewer words meant I’d finish reading sooner. Then I could go outside and climb trees or jump in mud puddles, depending on the weather. I didn’t even skim the titles. I just grabbed a book at random. Were all the skinny books bad or did I have a gift for picking duds? Either way, my poor choices reinforced my belief that all books were boring. Then came eighth grade and the dreaded oral book reports for English class. Remember oral book reports? As I suffered through them, I came up with the fantasy to write a book of my own. If I could write about characters I cared about, having adventures I wanted to have, and then got it published, I could give a book report on MY book! I estimated it would take about a week to write, then another week and a half to get published. That’s how publishing works, right? But here’s the BEST PART! If I wrote my own book and gave a book report on it … I wouldn’t have to read it first! ’Cause I wrote it! [I’ve since learned that during the editing process, you read your book about a zillion times.] In eighth grade, I never wrote that novel, but the dream never left me. My mother, the voice of reason, often said, “If you want to write well, you have to read.” When you’re thirteen, aren’t moms always wrong? I didn’t want to read books, I just wanted to write them. It took a juvenile literature class in college to turn me from the “dark side” of non-readership. Mom couldn’t get me to do it, but the requirement to read twenty children’s books or fail the semester did. That was when I became a book lover. Like many other reluctant readers, I know how it feels to hate books. I also know how it feels to enjoy reading. There’s nothing more exhilarating than discovering a book that transports you to a world so real you think you’re there. As writers, we have the power to turn reluctant readers into book lovers. All we have to do is write the kind of books they want to read.