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Reading and I didn’t start out as friends. Sad, but true.
To put it mildly, I couldn’t hear well. Something happened when I was younger that caused an obstruction in my ears, which lead to my eardrums not working right. My brain didn’t know how to ingest the medical jargon or the clinical reasoning behind all this. I just knew it hurt, a lot, and it sucked. My season of ear infections lasted for three years.
I’d wake to my face wet from crying all night. The sounds of locker doors slamming somberly applauded nonstop in my ears. Once I had a search party held to find my missing ear plugs that had fallen out while swimming. Doctors mandated I visit twice a week. I saw more medical instruments than ever a box of crayons. Ear drops. Cotton balls. Q-tips. These were standard. I’d lay horizontal for hours draining out all puss and blood swelling in my ears. You really never know what’s in you until it’s out of you, or in my case, when it oozes out and drips like tree sap sticking to your earlobe. Pretty, right? When I went a night without any pain, it was a good day. I clung to the hope that my ear problems were over—I maybe had one or two days of zero pain.
This all happened to me just as I was learning to speak and write. My hearing disability not only made reading and writing the pinnacle of my frustration during my toddler years, but it crippled my confidence. Fear habitually wormed its way into my throat whenever I tried to read aloud. I was afraid of mispronouncing a word (even though, at that age, we were all mispronouncing our words.) Writing was just as hard for me. A sentence was like running a mile in heels on a gravel road–with crater size pot holes. I was constantly tripping over words and falling into deep funks of illiteracy. I couldn’t grasp my condition. All that played in my head was the song “there’s something wrong with you,” which, if you don’t know, sounds like a blaring blend of jazz, death metal, and a mournful tuba tune.
Now as a twenty-something adult, you would think I’d have an easier time describing that time in my life, but I still struggle describing it. When you can’t put a name on what you’re feeling, it’s aggravating. It’s a torrent of ambiguous thoughts screaming at you. It felt something like this:
*&*%!!!!!!!*$%$&$&$!!!!!!
One day during reading time in kindergarten, my teacher decided to change up the routine and asked us to form groups of two. Knots formed in my chest. I acted fast trying to spy any stragglers that looked as confused as me. I gave another look around, but I was the only one left, and I refused to be paired up with my teacher. I found a hiding place under a deserted desk and made camp there.
I started to mouth the words in a whisper. My lips ran into a snag. The sentences were derailing me. I must have repeated that sentence a dozen times, making the wrong sound again and again. I was ready to call it quits and pretend like I read. I had a pen with me, though. I thought I’d try something different. So, I started to underline the hard words.
The universe, if you didn’t know, is an omnipotent creature that is always watching us. It was not chance that my teacher found me. I tell you, it’s the universe at work. She saw the pen, the book, and then me again. I didn’t know if she was about to cry or yell. What came next was what you’d expect. Principal office. Phone call to the parent. Lecture. My dad was charged with a fine. He took me home.
On the car ride home, my dad was fuming. He tried to explain loudly to me why we do not write in our books. It was less than a minute discussion.
“Because we just don’t,” he said. It is what it is, in other words: top ten most hated phrases in existence.
I didn’t argue (found out later he was more pissed at the school for calling him about something so trivial than at me), but I was pretty upset. I had been made to feel like what I did was damaging and unnatural. All I had done was add my marks in a book, on paper. What could be so wrong with that? I know it wasn’t mine, but treating me like I had destroyed the sanctity of book reading was harsh. I didn’t start writing in my books again until college, where I found not every thought we have is profound, not every comments we make is great, but there is an idea worth exploring and we have to just push through.
Most of us are reading published works of literature. We can access hard, digital, or audio copies at our leisure. Libraries are a perk.
What’s there not to love about books? Yes, I love them. Polished print. Attractive front covers (who doesn’t like when a classic is revamped!). A-list author reviews. And the writing!
Even if the story is terrible, or the story didn’t excite you, it’s published, and thereof, deemed worthy to bask in its hardcover, publishy glow (literally sometimes, the screen on your tablet glows). A book has its own aura of awesomeness that so many readers have a hard time describing. We can’t ignore our attraction. This is not just about books, though. It’s how we treat them as untouchable objects. I agree we need to take better care of them, but what intimidates us to write in them? Why do we avoid writing mini essays and mini novels in the provided margins? There not there just for show.
The author is sharing his or her words with you. What are you sharing back? His or her words made it passed rounds of carnivorous editing at so-and-so publishing house so that you could read and think on what was written. Shouldn’t something be said when an arrangement of words catches your eye? I’d like to think so. As a writer working to get her novel published, I sincerely hope that my readers will take the time and write something. Of course, I won’t know, but that’s not actually the point.
So why don’t more people write in their books? Do not tell me, ‘it ruins the book,” because that’s not true.
Okay. If say, the book is an heirloom OR is one of a kind—then okay. That’s probably not the case. Writing enhances your relationship and understanding of reading. For me, writing is ritual I do daily (novel, blogging, journal, etc.). Jotting notes in my books just feels, well, right. Why did I particularly love that passage in TFIOS with the swing set? What made that passage so great? You’re questioning the authors/editors choices. When you’re with your book friends, it really helps you to get a conversation started. We externally exchange our thoughts but we start internally circulating our thoughts first.
Published work is not untouchable. It won’t be any less published. The author made a conscious choice to have his or her work shared. These books are yours. Whenever I lend out a book, I always give the borrower the option of writing in my books. Some of my friends are opposed to this, as others just embrace it. The best part? When I get the book back, I get to read all their comments—and emoticons. And, of course, when I inevitably pick up the book again to read, the process can start anew.
P.S. – Write in YOUR book, otherwise, an angry librarian will find you. Do not piss one off. They are your friends.
P.S.S – I have a Twitter account now! Follow me at @myhermitsanctum for my latest post and updates.