I was looking at a certain person’s journal last night, and she inspired me to make this post. She was talking about her dad, and how he helped gain her appreciation and love for reading. I actually have to say she has/had, I’m not sure which one is appropriate, an amazing father.
I don’t read much. In fact, I hate to. Always have. When I was in elementary school, I’m not sure which grade it was, before the sixth grade at least, I was put in a special reading class. It was called Chapter One. I didn’t read well, and it was designed to aid in that. I don’t remember much about it.
Reading it still hard for me. The setting has to be just right. No noise in the room. Other people in the room are okay as long as they’re quiet. If they start talking to me, that’s it. I can’t focus on the words. Even under those conditions, if I’m not careful, by the time I get to the end of a paragraph, I can have forgotten what the first part of it was about. If the material is something I truly want to read, then I can do it. For example, my mother read a book titled, A Child Called It, or something along those lines. It was a true story written by a child who faced massive child abuse. For some reason, the mother singled him out among her children, and the things this woman did to this child were horrid. I read that book, and I’m glad I did. It was actually very good. My ex boyfriend had told me about the Sleeping Beauty books, and he had copies of all three of them. I read all of three of those, and the author has recently published another one that I can’t wait to get my hands on. Yes. I even read the 50 Shades of Grey books. Shameless I know, but I have to say I thought they were poorly written. The love making scenes actually began to become mundane and boring to me as I was more riveted by the plot going on while they had their clothes on. The movie, on the other hand, was one I bought. I digress. It’s always been strange to me that I enjoy writing so much but have such a distain for reading, but I don’t like following a path others have made. I want to make my own path. I want to write characters my readers can believe. I want them to be able to feel the anger and rebellion in characters like Tessa and Kaige. I want them to feel the soft, gentle, caring nature of characters like Elizabeth. Even the loneliness felt at times by the social reject Callie is something I hope to convey to them. If they’re being beaten, I want my readers to feel the anguish, the pain they’re enduring, and get behind them in wanting to read the words where their suffering comes to an end and they get their revenge. I want them to sigh when that first kiss that has been building up finally happens. I know if I loved reading more it would broaden my vocabulary and help make me a better writer, but I just can’t get submerge myself into reading like most everybody else can. My mother loves to read. She doesn’t want to get a Kindle. She says she loves the feel of a book in her hand. Being able to turn the pages is part of the experience for her. She told me that when she reads she is there, in the moment with them. The author doesn’t even have to describe what they’re wearing. She can see it. I can’t do that. It’s people like this other person who inspired me to write this, Chanti, and my mother, and others that I know, that make me wish I could develop a love for reading. I just can’t seem to though.
On a side note, does my father enjoy reading? I don’t know, but I’ve always looked at my father as my hero. He can do anything. If I need anything, I go to daddy. No for any perverts who might be reading this and thinking, ‘Now I know where the incest kink comes from.’ NO! I don’t look at my father that way. So please don’t degrade the relationship I have with him to that. The same can be said for my brothers as well. I’ve never looked at them and thought, ‘I’d love to have sex with my older, or younger, brother.’ Nope.
Well that’s enough soul bearing information for now. I hope everybody has a good day.