Today, I’ve been thinking about writing, whether poetry, fiction, non-fiction, or even well-crafted shopping lists. More than that, though, I’ve been thinking about reading, something I’ve always done at the expense of things that were probably more practical.
My mom was a kindergarten teacher and taught me how to read before I was able to form memories, or at least that’s how it seems. I don’t remember learning how to swim, either, which makes sense considering I grew up close to the ocean. I’ve long imagined family members vying for the chance to throw me into the water for the first time. And who could blame them, really?
My first reading memories are of staying up too late at night, huddled over a book, missing out on valuable sleep that would’ve probably made me more energetic and pleasant to be around. That’s still me, almost every night of my life. When students tell me they don’t have time to read, I admit I don’t, either, but I still do it.
By all accounts, I shouldn’t be reading. I know I should be changing light bulbs or working outside in my yard or cleaning something, but I read instead.
That’s not likely to change any time soon.
