Well it has been quite a while since my last post and that fault is due to visiting wonderful relatives and reading the giant stockpile of books I have accumulated over the course of the year. Maybe I will finish my yearly goal early...wouldn't that be nice. Luckily I escaped the powerful influence of Etsy and made my way over to my blog. I really need to learn not to look up anything unless I have at least an hour to waste looking at all the homemade goodies I can't have until Christmas. (I have willpower and the extreme intelligence of keeping my wallet as far away as possible on my browsing excursions).
Well back to the topic at hand, which involves my ruminations on how exactly a book lover is created and why some people just seem to miss the boat. I have to wonder whether it is something that just blossoms as a child or do you need a specific book, a specific series, or the right circumstances to find yourself in love with the written word.
Take for instance my family. Both of my brothers did not start out with a love of books, in fact they actually hated them, which I think is due to school and the mandatory RAH or Read At Home every night. Books became a chore. Something to agonize over before getting to play. Thankfully one of them changed their tune the minute they found the Harry Potter series. That series opened up a whole new world of enjoyment and a love for fantasy books in general for him. Harry Potter was so appealing that he kept rereading it over and over again to the point where his teacher made a rule that you can't reread books for credit, which I think is a rather stupid rule. You get something new out of a book every time you read it. I'm still waiting for the other one to stop hating on books.
For me, my love of books can be traced back to one moment in time, not tied to any particular book or series. In fact I can't for the life of me remember the book I was reading when the moment occurred to me. It was second grade and I was sitting at my grandma's dining table doing my required reading. I was completely captivated by the story and instead of stopping after a couple of pages, I read the entire book in one sitting. When I packed up all of my stuff and looked around the weirdest feeling came over me. I can't put a name to it and can only liken it to the feeling you get when somebody wakes you up during the wrong part of your sleep cycle in the middle of a dream. When everything around you seems foreign because just seconds before you were somewhere else in the dream.
I felt like I had been somewhere else entirely for the past hour and couldn't figure out why. Then it dawned on me. I had in fact imagined myself completely in the story where I followed around the brother and his sister with the photographic memory on their investigative adventure.
I don't know if it was just my teachers that said this, but right before read aloud or independent reading they always insisted that we try to imagine the stories in our minds using the descriptions the author gives you. My ability to do this without ever having to try was something that has made me love books to this day. I love how a great book can transport you to a new world entirely and great character description and development can make it feel like you have discovered a new friend or enemy in the case of well written villains. That is why some of my favorite books always have dynamic characters with strong detailed settings to back them up. It is only when a book fails in this respect, that reading becomes a chore.
So can't say for certain what makes a person love books so much, but I can bet that each story of the creation of that love is interesting and incredibly diverse.
If all goes well my next post should be fluffy, fun, and full of pictures:)