He Used to Love to Read

Saying my son “used to love to read,” is difficult, particularly considering I’m a writer. I’ve had conversations with people about this. Frank loved to read until he entered whatever grade it was that Lit Logs were introduced. Reading went from something he did for himself, to homework. When he was required to read for a half hour every night and record the pages he read, he stopped reading for an hour or two when he felt like it, and instead, fulfilled the requirement. 

You may be able to ascertain I am not a proponent of Lit Logs. The premise is it will turn our children into people who love to read. I don’t love much of anything I’m required to do. When you take the choice away, sometimes the fun goes with it too. I can tell you, his teachers may not appreciate this, but I am not forcing Beckett to read. He reads because he loves it. And if he happens to read a half an hour every night (he reads far more than that), and happens to fill out his log, great. If not, I’ll deal with whatever the repercussions are.

Last week Frank and I reviewed his summer requirements for AP Euro. He has to read one book from the suggested reading list and answer six journal questions about the book. Each question requires a two-page answer. He went to the library to reserve his top two choices, and found he was on the waiting list for both, and he was twelfth in line. I told him instead I would download the books and he could read them on his iPad. I set up a Kindle account for him with a lingering hope that once he started reading electronically, he may be more open to finding books he’s interested in reading.

While we were in Santa Fe, Doug and I went out for dinner one of the nights by ourselves. When we came back to the hotel room, Frank said, “Uh, mom, I downloaded a couple books, I hope that’s okay.” Inside I was jumping for joy. Outside, I simply said, “Of course it’s okay.”

One of the books he downloaded was the Fault in Our Stars. He started it Sunday night, and finished it last night. Yesterday afternoon when I came home from a few hours at the academy, he hadn’t done the two or three simple chores he has to do each day. I asked him to do them, and then we ran a couple of errands. When we got home he seemed agitated. When I asked what was up he said, “M-o-o-o-m, I just want to be done so I can READ.” More jumping for joy on the inside.

Within minutes he was released from his servitude and disappeared until dinner time. When he came up to eat he said “I’m so mad. This book is so sad.” Yes, I thought, books can be like that. They’ll stir up emotions you don’t necessarily want them to, and if he’s anything like me, he’ll get so immersed in it that he’ll feel it for hours, maybe even days.

After dinner he disappeared again only to return an hour or so later. “It was so sad,” he said over and over, rubbing his face. It was clear he’d been crying but was trying very hard not to let on he had been. He went into the laundry room and discovered that I had put his favorite new shirt in the dryer, and ruined it. He came back out, put it on and it had shrunk to to the point it would no longer fit him. He chastised me for it, I apologized. A few minutes later I got up to see where he’d gone and found him stretched out on the floor in the hallway, face buried in his crossed arms.

“It’s just too much,” he said. “The book, the shirt it’s just too much.” Yes, I thought again. And isn’t that the beauty of reading? Being so powerfully moved by a book that all you can do is bury your head in your hands and absorb it, and it is so impactful that it heightens your emotions in regard to other things happening in your life. It’s magic, when a book can do that to you. Magic.

Today I opened the second book in the East Aurora series, which I haven’t looked at in months. Reading through a couple of random pages, I remembered how this book makes me feel. Not just the book, but the series. It’s magic. I’m thankful every day that I allowed myself, forced myself, to sit down and write. Hard to believe the anniversary of that day is approaching the second year mark. In that time I’ve written four books, with two more very close to being finished. I have four more ready to write. 

Yesterday afternoon I had a conversation with someone about the third book in the Crested Butte series, And Then You Kiss. When I asked her about a specific part of the book, she started to cry. “It was moving,” she said through her tears. And I started to cry too, remembering how I felt when I wrote it. Magic, for me and for her, that days, weeks, and sometimes months later, recalling a particular scene in a book can bring you back to the tears, back to the emotion. Magic.