I Hate Books.
Last week, waiting for the train at 96, I was at the tail end of a novel I’ve been working on for maybe two and a half, three weeks. I can read faster, don’t you worry. I just needed something to distract me from the noise and clutter I have to deal with every morning and evening, getting to and from work. Strangers were coming up to me, commenting on the novel, saying they loved it, asking me ‘did you get to the part where…?’ even going out of their way to encourage me to finish it. That made me excited, but it also got me thinking. Out of all things to entertain myself with, why a book?
I hate books! I hate reading! Is what my younger self would say. From preschool to maybe sophomore year of college, I could care less about 300 pages printed and bound. Burn them. Burn them all, I won’t read them anyway. And if not burn them, they’ll sit on a shelf as a decorative piece collecting dust.
A History.
I’m sure I’ve read books between preschool and fifth grade. Too bad I don’t remember a damn thing. Every book I read then was so intriguing and entertaining that it left zero impressions.
Sixth grade through eighth I only remember one book and it was for some summer reading project. So first day of school come September, I'd already completed a homework assignment. The book was When My Name Was Keoko, and I can’t even tell you what happened in that. I remember the feeling of it, which was good, but I'm sure that was a fluke. Then there's the classics: To Kill a Mockingbird, The Things They Carried, Brighton Beach Memoirs, and The Great Gatsby. Bits and pieces is what I remember of those literary works, but the one image that has stayed with me through time is a scene in The Things They Carried, where the narrator describes a fellow soldier stepping on a land mine. One second there, and another gone. Just like that. Giving me delicate details of the sunlight breaking through the canopy, the little speckles of dust particles hovering and tumbling in the light, the serene forest, and the silence that followed… My bad. Spoiler alert. There may have been some books I've read that had to do with three girls solving mysteries, but as you can read, the name is lost on me. At this point in my life I still hated books. I hated books so much that my God Parents were willing to pay me to read Seven Daily Habits of Highly Effective Teens. Five buck per chapter.
I never finished the book.
Ninth grade through twelfth were the fun years, with Shakespeare. When I say fun, I mean sad. Just sad. I already hated reading, and then I had to read sonnets and shit and then translate that shit to make sense of it. Maybe even memorize a section to perform in front of my classmates. I may have had an interest in reading back then but my teachers killed it. No I don’t care about Romeo or Juliet. Bye.
Freshman and sophomore year of college, was supposed to be spent buying expensive-ass text books. No I’m not paying three hundred dollars for a book I’ll use once, return for money back at half the cost. Yes I’ve went into tests without reading a single word from a text book. Yes I’ve passed or failed, kept grades around A’s and B’s, and an occasional C, and still graduated with honors. How? Jesus.
So what happened? Where did I go wrong? Why do I like books? Why do I like to read?
In high school, I was lounging on the couch when a commercial came on for a novel turned movie franchise. Curious, I went and read the first couple of pages of said novel and couldn't get through the rest.
How.
How could this author be this successful with such stale saltine cracker characters, 'bouts to fall asleep at work after eating plot, and 'just ok,' / 'read it if you have nothing else better to do,' writing? Seeing as I didn't and still don't have all the answers, I decided to write my own novel and write it better than this commercial showing, franchise having, piece of work. After making the decision that day, I started my own research by forcing myself to read novels of the same genre that targeted the audience I wanted to write for. And by doing so, I stumbled upon some entertaining stuff.
Then I found myself raiding my sister's library. One day I found myself at a Barnes & Noble, at the checkout with the employee holding my cash in his left, and my B&N membership card in my right. I don't even remember giving the man my money. And now B&N is my favorite store. I even take photos of it and post it on Instagram. Lame.
Either way, I'm grateful. I could have really missed out on another great form of entertainment if it wasn't for Jesus, that so and so author, and my competitiveness. Gotta love books.
What I'm reading now:
