Summer Reading

When I was a kid I used to read at least a book a week, sometimes one each day. Now that I’m not, I don’t read nearly as much and that’s sad.

I’ll freely admit that when I was in high school I was addicted to R.L. Stine books, especially the Fear Street series. I’m not exactly sure what drove my obsession to devour them all, which seemed impossible as a new book was released every month, and yes, I was at the bookstore two to three times a month to locate the next book. This probably fueled my desire to try to write for young adults, and I tried to mimic his style of writing even, but alas it was hokey. I had already done quite a few children’s books and felt like I needed to evolve or at the very least branch out. Eventually I rewrote the few young adult novels I had done as a teenager when I was older and funnily they don’t seem anything like a Fear Street book any longer. In fact they seem much more like me.

So a couple weeks ago, after having finished a slightly less grammatically incorrect Twilight Saga book (Eclipse), I scoured my bookcases for another easy read. I happened upon my collection of Fear Street books and picked one of five I still hadn’t read yet. Yes, I can also admit that my R.L. Stine kick faded rather dramatically after I started college. Grabbing the first book my hands took hold of, I went into the living room, plopped my ass on the couch and began reading.

Now, two things happened when I started reading this particular book: First, it reminded me of sitting in a quiet wing at my high school to eat lunch and eat every word Bob wrote; second, this writing was horrible. I mean, how do I put it? It made Stephanie Meyer look like she actually knows how to construct a plausible sentence. You really have no idea how painful that was for me to write. I don’t know if it is just because the book was a little lack-luster or if my tastes have changed to the point that I’ve read too many good books that what I thought was superb writing as a kid now look like jumbled words thrown together and packaged as a teen novel. I’m thinking the only way to remedy the situation is to read a book I know I’ve already read and enjoyed and find out if that really is the case or if it was just this particular book. I mean, the author admitted that he finished a book every three weeks, perhaps this was just a complete miss, right? It’s possible he just had an off few days and pressure from the publisher had him churning out a dud or two just to keep the momentum going, isn’t it?

Fear set in.

I can’t breathe.

The breath I so desperately need to survive unable to enter my lungs as if they were paralyzed, as if my whole body was paralyzed. I watched as the creature I could sense and feel but could not see come closer.

Closer.

Closer still.

Closer until I could feel the cold emanating from its presence, sending goose bumps down my arms, my legs, my entire body; the only thing that told me I was still alive. A finger twitched. I could move again! Quickly, I ran into my room, reached into the bookcase and grabbed a well-loved R.L. Stine novel I remember enjoying so much as a teenager, and hope I can find my happy place again within its pages.