Reading vs Life

We are blogging this month on our favorite books and stories, but I wanted to share why books and stories are important to me.

As a child I often escaped into secret places to read. There wasn’t much at home to read except the encyclopedias and a set of classics bound in pastel colors that were bought for my aunts and uncles to read when they were in school. The farm, my grandmother’s homestead, was fifteen miles from town so we didn’t go to town but once a week for groceries. We had a library in grade school that was left from the high school when it consolidated in the county. That library opened up vistas of excitement for me. I took stacks of books home until my arms ached from the weight. There was only twelve students in my class so I was lucky enough that the school was small enough that no matter what kind of kid you were, you were accepted and involved. At that time my favorites were stories of survival or masquerade. They still are for that matter, but now I want a healthy dose of romance in them.

During high school, I managed as a farm kid to get a driver’s license at fourteen and then found the county library. OOOhhhuuuweee. I found science fiction and as a little snob read the section and determined that romance was for those without the brainpower to read more. That was about a year before I found Georgette Heyer. She had me at page one of The Grand Sophie and I became a permanent convert to romance. Louis Lamoure beguiled me into westerns.

My mom didn’t seem to care if I read, but it disturbed my father a lot. After the initial excitement was over that I learned to read, he was worried and has had many a talk with me about the fact that books aren’t real and I needed to come out and live a real life. What he never understood, and still doesn’t, is that I comprehend real life very well. There isn’t enough in it to keep me entranced. I need both worlds. Never-ending cycles of dust deposit and removal just don’t do it for me. I need to visit other places, people, and times. With such a low availability of people, I need the imaginary ones to learn other things from. I’ve learned about sacrifice and nobility of spirit. I’ve learned of chicanery and spite. I’ve learned how to make handmade lace, jerky, and cheesecake. I’ve learned about the needs of plants, animals, children, and myself.

I have friends. I have acquaintances. I have people I’ve known for a lifetime and people who have known my family for a few generations and I theirs. I also have books for friends, acquaintances, and teachers. Books are more reliable. People die, move, or attend to their own business. A book is always there ready to share all it is at any time, day or night, storm or shade, un-judgemental, as long as you have the strength to open it. However, why do I choose romance over all other varieties? Because I think reading material ought to end on a satisfying and upbeat note precisely because real life can be very harsh, unpredictable, and sometimes doesn’t end well at all. And do you want to know some irony? I really miss those Harlequins I once turned my snobbish little nose up at, the ones that took us to countries, professions, and cultures around the globe—nurses with blind men, isolated Australian sheep farms, Portuguese families and old family names.