The Truth About Me and Books

I grew up with a mom who spent every spare minute reading books. I mean, every spare minute. If you wanted to know where she was when she wasn't working tirelessly teaching, grading, cleaning or cooking, she would no doubt be in the living room, reading a book on the couch. It was inevitable that I too would learn to love reading.

My first memory of reading, though, is from my first day of kindergarten. I have no doubt that my parents read to me as an infant, but I'm one of those people that doesn't remember much before I was four. I picked out Barbapapa from the shelf of books on my first day of class. It was in french, so I didn't understand it at all, but I was shy and overwhelmed and the pictures were neat.

I kept reading.

In the summer between grades 1 and 2, my best friend Rachel found a new best friend, and I found myself at a loss. I started reading every chance I got. Morning recess. Lunch hour. Afternoon recess. By the end of grade 3, I was reading a chapter book a day and I got my first pair of glasses. I had friends, but the vast majority of them were fictional characters.

I kept reading.

In the summer before high school, my best friend at camp - the one I looked forward to seeing all year - was joined by her cousin. Her cousin took an instant dislike to me. She had a forceful personality, and made sure the everyone in our group of friends stopped talking to me. That was fun. So, instead of hanging out at the fort, making pie-irons and playing flashlight tag, I hung out with my younger cousin and spent countless hours by the campfire or at the beach reading books. I packed more books than I did clothes. I took out books from the library by the truckload.

I kept reading.

Fast forward many years, and, while I don't spend every spare minute reading like my mother, I do when the book is especially good. I can't bear to not have a book on the go. When I am within one hundred pages of finishing a book, I must have one lined up to read next. Preferably bought and waiting on my shelf for the second I finish the one I am currently reading. I get stressed out if I don't.

I keep reading. I am always reading. I didn't realize, though, until today what it means when I start reading voraciously - as I have been doing recently. I finished The Lady Elizabeth by Alison Weir. I can't believe that I haven't read anything by her before now. I have a penchant for historical fiction, you see, because it marries my love of reading with my love of the stage. What is historical fiction except taking cold, hard facts and building an interesting, living, breathing story out of it? Preparing a character is the same thing.

When I started reading the book, it was like coming home. I've been reading for my book club recently, and while the novels have been absolutely interesting and exciting, they are not necessarily books I would choose for myself. Which is a good thing. It's like going abroad on vacation. I love to do that more than anything, but I don't want to live there. I wanted to live in Weir's book. It felt so comfortable, so exactly right. It was all I could do not to run out during naptime (they frown on leaving small children alone, don't they..?) and buy Innocent Traitor (a fictional account of Lady Jane Grey), and Elizabeth the Queen (to see how her non-fiction novel compares to her fictional account of the queen's early years).

I was puzzled as to why, though. I had Little Bee all lined up to read next. Why would I feel such a strong need to keep reading Weir's books? Yes, The Lady Elizabeth was excellent, but I've heard much about Little Bee, and was excited to read it. Why the sudden change of heart? That, in turn, got me thinking about my sudden upsurge in reading time lately.

I came to this conclusion. I read insatiably, unstoppably when I am feeling lonely. I am loving being at home with the kids, but despite never being "alone", it is kind of...lonely. I see my kids, I see my husband, and that's the vast majority of time. I'm not finding the moms around here at the drop-in centres or in the parks to be very friendly at all. The nannies are a clique unto themselves. The moms that I am friends with are either back at work, or clear across the city, so playdates are not nearly frequent enough. Add to that doctor appointments, sickness, and preschool conflicts, and setting up get-togethers is a complicated dance of duelling calendars.

Books are always there, though, and always accessible - even when friends are not. I lean on them far too heavily when I am feeling sorry for myself. Nothing wrong with that, I guess, excepting that literature should be a pleasure, not a dependance.

Thank goodness for blooming spring hope and bloggy love. Maybe they can help me out of this funk I am in.