This, along with From The Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, were well-worn, dog-eared favorites I read over and over and over again as a child.
When I was a kid I used to sneak a flashlight and read under my covers until the wee hours of morning so my parents couldn’t see the light from my window long past bedtime.
It was while reading Shakespeare in my high school English class I suddenly knew I would go on to study English literature in college. Man’s Search for Meaning, All’s Quiet on the Western Front, and One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest (language!) shaped me.
I used to be so much better about finding–no, making–time to read. Sometimes I would pick out a book (anything by Michael Crichton or John Grisham) that I knew would be intriguing enough it could help me wile away my minutes on the stationery bike at the gym. But then I would get caught up in the story and have to go home and finish it in the next day or two.
Willa Cather–particularly Death Comes for the Archbishop–is wonderful to leave on your nightstand and consume one chapter at a time at the end of the day. Wallace Stegnar’s Crossing to Safety by is another that is perfect for winding down your day just before drifting off to sleep.
I caught on to the delightfulness of the Harry Potter series early, but was grateful when it became such a phenomenon that I could go buy the next book in the series at Walmart in the middle of the night the day it was released and my kids were at just the right stage of independency that I could stay up all night and finish it sometime the next day and no one would be the worse for the wear (or, ahem, sight amount of neglect).
There was that one year, the year my mom was dying, when I read one book. The same book. Twice. “Where’d Ya Go, Bernadette?” It made me laugh. And after I finished it I knew it was quite possible there was nothing else that could make me laugh quite so. So I read it again.
Those days seemed to disappear since I started working full time. At the moment I am in the middle of at least three books I can’t seem to finish. (One is good and well recommended, but slow. The other has far too many words, but I want to persevere and see how it ends.)
That’s not to say I don’t read at all. True, I no longer finish books in a day, but if on Monday I realize book group is on Thursday and I haven’t read the book, but I did think ahead enough to procure a copy, I can still finish it by reading a few hours each night for the next three nights.
Which reminds me, I’d better see what we’re reading this month…
[Day 86 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]