Books

I love reading books and I love writing books. I do not love that I haven’t done either in quite some time.

Ever since I was a child I had a fascination with books that made me want to become an author (and author/illustrator for children’s books) when I grew up. Sadly I’ve been quite grown for awhile now, but my dreams for world domination in five or so book categories has yet to materialize. Should I simply give up at my ripened age? Or should I persevere that much more to attain the goals I set when I was a poor fat kid now that I am an even poorer skinny man?

Of course, this would mean becoming even more of a recluse than I was in middle and high school, spending nearly all of my free time writing stories and illustrating pictures for the ones meant for children, right? I’m not so sure I’m ready to make that kind of commitment, but at the same time, I’m not ready to simply give up on my dreams. Something has got to change, and that something is within my grasp.

Books

I love to read. Our kiddos seem to be in the same boat.

Every night it is the same situation, one of the kids gets to choose a book for me to read to them. To make it fair, we alternate between the two. However, sometimes there is fighting involved over choosing a bedtime story, in which case either myself or my husband choose the book, and usually that book is super short. Why? Because by that point we are both exhausted from the seemingly unlimited amount of energy the munchkins have!

Lately I’ve noticed the older boy likes to simply sit in the room and read to himself. I don’t think he can actually read yet, but he seems to remember many of the words associated with the pictures, which makes me think it might be time to try more word recognition so he can start to read on his own. Of course, with our weather being so sunny it’ll be difficult to keep them indoors to work on this. I’m sure we’ll find the time.

Reading

I used to read a lot. Now it seems my book reading has been replaced with blogs and Facebook status updates.

In anticipation of the last of the Harry Potter movies (well, part 1 anyway) my partner has been rereading the book, albeit this time at a much more relaxed pace. The first time was a fervent effort to get through it as quickly as possible to talk about it among friends. I, on the other hand, took my time reading it because I like to enjoy the words I’m looking at and imagining the scenarios rather than simply take it all in so quickly just so I know what happens in the end.

I enjoy reading. It is one of those simple pleasures that can transport you to another world or thinking of new ideas. I don’t really have a particular genre I like more than another, but I must admit I do like mysteries, fantasies and thrillers. And if it is quirky, all the better. Villa Incognito by Tom Robbins is a great example of a quirky, fun read that got me hooked from the first line of the book. Of course, the first line is, “It has been reported that Tanuki fell from the sky using his scrotum as a parachute.”

However, I must admit, my reading has dwindled dramatically as of late. Ever since I realized the book I had started earlier this year was a sequel to the popular All Quiet on the Western Front it has made me want to read that book first. Plus I’ll probably have to start the book over anyway because I don’t remember where I left off and a little person was kind enough to take the bookmark out of its place.

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.