Someone recently commented on me not being that into reading
as a kid. This statement baffled me as I think back and remember the countless
books I got lost in. But I suppose it wasn’t always as obvious to everyone
around me, simply because I was lost in the real world too.
Being raised by a bonafide Biblio-holic who stacked books in
our childhood home pathologically, I grew up with a deep appreciation for the
written word. (And possibly the reason behind my hoarder mentality.) Even
though I was by no means a church-mouse who locked herself away with her nose
in a book 24/7, I developed a reverence for the thousands of novels that lined
our passageways, bedrooms, bookcases and even bathroom floor on occasion.
I am the kind of person who loves the world ‘out there’ with
an adventurous spirit, chasing dreams and experiencing every waking moment I
can. People and their stories fascinated me from a young age and I collected
them like shelves of hardbacks. I was always keenly aware of my own story
growing inside me too, one that I wanted to read and write everyday to see what
happens next.
My grandmother, a fellow bookish creature, once told me that
I would have to live a thousand lives to be a part of all the stories I chased,
or I would simply have to become a writer, and the first step to writing is
reading. I was constantly busy with these stories - chasing them both inside
and outside of the printed page. Books didn’t always fit into my gregarious
nature, but they did hold a special place right from the beginning, and
were ever present.
Throughout the years, I was at any given time in the middle
of reading a book. (Not to mention the pile of ‘to-read’s that grows on my
bedside table like the leaning tower of pizza till Husband forces me to take
them all back to the bookcase, and I’m left with just the one…)
It started before I can even remember, with my mother
reading to me every night. As I got older and gathered more tangible memories
of these special evenings, I was lost in a sea of my mothers words as she read
steadily from The Hobbit, The Just William books, Jenny, Missee Lee, The Scarlet Pimpernel and many other
great stories. Nothing like sharing the adventures of a female pirate or of a
little boy trapped by magic in a cat’s body or a World War 2 child’s mischievous
playground to make for a rich and full adolescence.
I spent rainy Saturday afternoons and sick days in bed
listening to the Story Teller tapes,
following along in the printouts that came with them and colouring in the
pictures. Thousands of hours must have been dedicated to Gobbolino the Witch’s Cat, Thumbelina,
The Marrog and Timbertwig. Stories endeared to me in vivid worlds of words, even
though I wasn’t the one reading them.
The first real book I remember reading to myself was Naughty Amelia Jane. I loved the scrappy
rag doll character and laughed at all the ridiculous situations she got herself
into. After the formative Enid Blyton
years, The Lion, the Witch and the
Wardrobe and the full C.S. Lewis
series, I read every Nancy Drew ever
written. I had a reading spot up a tree where I would climb with a book and
settle down in my nest for the afternoon. My world was lit up by Charley and the Chocolate Factory, and
then brought back down again by James and
the Giant Peach (never did like that one).
After a trip to the library where my then 4 siblings and I
had the understanding that we would each take out a different one, the Asterix comic book series would be passed
around our home as fast and furious as a contagious bout of gastro before the
next library visit and we would exchange them for a whole new batch to share.
Alice in Wonderland
and Through the Looking Glass made a
regular appearance in many forms; picture books, abbreviated versions, the
Disney adaptation and the full Lewis
Caroll classic. I ventured, at some point, to write a 3rd novel
to the series – my first (failed) attempt at fan fiction.
What child who doesn’t love books spends a summer vacation
with her best friend, taking turns in reading chapters of the Anastasia Krupnik series to each other
for weeks on end? That same best friend and I would swap copies of Scrambled Legs and even tried our hand
at writing our own combined book as young teens. She was also the one who
introduced me to my first (and last) Mills
and Boon somewhere around puberty.
I grew up some more and started reading books behind my
parents’ backs for fear of their disapproval. Some game books where you could
choose your own ending, a few Judy Blumes
and The Sweet Valley Twins books,
much to my youngest brothers dismay. He started giving me different books to
help balance out my appetites, and I tried. From Shogun (which took me about a year to read and I am not even
convinced I ever did finish it - SO not my genre!) to The Terminator. I read the movie-based book with guilty hunger
because I knew the film was banned in our home. My mother of course found it in
my room, took it away from me, read it herself, and then gave it back with all
the blasphemy and swear words blocked out in black ink. I was mortified!
English Lit was my favorite subject, and thanks to being home
schooled, I got to read a few of my older siblings set work books and assigned
poetry as well as my own grade, sitting in on their lessons when my mother
dissected the words throughout my high school career. I loved the language, the
story telling – Far From the Madding
Crowd, Shakespeare, Charles Dickens and e e cummings quenched what every lettered thirst I had. Amongst
them, one Afrikaans pearl shining in my purse of all time literary loves – Kringe In Die Bos.
At some point in my late teens I started to read only religious
books. Even amongst those, my belletristic needs found a pick of beloveds. Christy, the original Catherine Marshal novel that was later
made into a TV series, story of the young missionary girl in the great Smoky
Mountains was and still is one of the most enchanting tales of love,
friendship, combined worlds and death I have ever encountered. The story of Jim Eliot, as written by the wife who
survived him, who was murdered by the Auca tribe he was going to preach to.
Then more of her books, including Passion
and Purity, giving advice to young ladies to become good, wholesome wives.
Yes, I had drunk the coolaid back then.
(I feel it is only fair to mention here that my siblings and
I were also all made to read the Bible every morning of our lives, and over the
years, I have probably read the Bible in its entirety 5 or 6 times...possibly
more.)
The only break from Christian literature that I can remember
at that time was music lyrics. The words of Britney
Spears, Madonna, Bon Jovi and Roxette twirled in my teenage head. Of
course this can’t be claimed as reading any more than posting status updates on
Facebook and tweeting can be claimed as writing… But the hours and hours spent
pouring over Tori Amos lyrics,
reading CD cover sleeves late into the night with esteemed devotion, and a
sense of something wonderful happening inside me, can. To this day a good Tori Amos lyric can send me into the
zone better than a bottle of wine!
After Bible College and a working trip to America, my steady
husk-diet of religious reading felt stale and forced to me. One shining beacon
of hope sparked up my innards again in the most significant series of books to
break a reading drought - Harry
Potter. This, of course, lasted for a few years and I eagerly awaited
the releasing of the latest one with the rest of the Potterheads. In the
interim, my little sister became my dealer and I started reading Terry Pratchett, her favorite author,
finding the comedic prose refreshing and delightful. I began to borrow books
from friends and boyfriends, thereby consuming a wider range of genre’s to find
out what I really did like.
Early adult years were slow on the reading front while I
worked, studied, dated and grew into myself, but I still managed to accumulate
some front-running greats. Perfume. The Poisonwood Bible. The Devil Wears Prada. Memoirs of a Geisha. White Oleander. All the Marian Keyes books. The Bell Jar. Geek Love (which
isn’t what you would think it is and therefore is brilliant.) Twenties Girl and the Sophie Kinsella Shopaholic series. A Vintage Affair.
Some less than stellar ones also cluttered my scattered reading
hours; The Da Vinci Code (a religious
cross-over which, at the time, read like a hangover.) Eat, Pray, Love (ugh.) 50
Shades of Grey (DOUBLE ugh.) And The Girl
with the Dragon Tattoo (which was a good book but was so brutal in some
scenes that it made me cry and put me off the series for good.)
Now that I am a little older, have left the feverish 20’s
behind me and acquired a Kindle e-reader, my world has been full to the brim
with books again. Even though I get trapped by the occasional trending
best-seller (Gone Girl anyone? Sigh.
I want my money and time back for that one!) mostly I love every moment I get
to read, and devour Indie publishers’ offerings and female fiction perpetually.
Every sentence. Every word. I am so thankful that my mother showed me the way
to become a bibliophile and fed my addiction till I was able to take over and
start feeding myself.
If I didn’t read, how else would I now know that the perfect
way to describe a hangover is to say I am feeling ‘rough as a badgers arse’?
How else would I be able to run away from arguments and Facebook feuds to a
lovely place where the characters don’t argue with me, don’t judge me and don’t
doubt my true intentions. How else would I have ever experienced the tragedy of
a missionary wife doubting her husbands work and having a heart wrenching love
affair, tucked away in the gorgeous Vale of Kashmir, India, in 1939. Or the despicable actions of the Capitol that
Katniss Everdeen has to sacrifice herself to bring down. Or that Ender was a
bit of a crybaby before he perfected the Game. How else would I know that there
are a million and one ways to illuminate the sheer exhilaration that is buying
a new pair of beautiful shoes?
I can say without a doubt that I have always been, and will
continue to be, a Bookish Child till the day I die. I will disappear, book in
hand, to the Great BookClub in the Sky for a nice long eternity of reading and
drinking tea with my grandmother.
Love, lust and fairy-star-dust,
Cherry Blossom
