For The Love of Books
“We are the meaning makers-everyone of us: children, parents and teachers. To try to make sense, to construct stories, and to share them with others in speech and in writing is an essential part of being human” (Wells, 1986, p. 222).
One of my earliest memories connected to the wonder of words, my love of language and literature is being read to at infant school. I have just one but very distinctive memory, of sitting cross-legged on the wooden, cold, hard, hall floor while our head mistress Mrs Seabrook read us a story. I remember the book. The Story of Little Black Sambo. It was a very small book with simple illustrations.
But where really did my love of literature come from? I don’t have any other distinctive memories of being read to or being particularly inspired by these instances, however, from a young age I was a prolific reader and to this day, continue to be so. As a teenager I would devour books at a phenomenal rate, pick an author and find every book that they had ever written and then I would read every one I could find, from Uri Geller to Jackie Collins, from Jeffrey Archer to Virginia Andrews, Irwin Shaw, Stephen King and the list goes on! My choice of authors was never particularly informed. I read compulsively almost like it was an addiction.
In my mid teens I left school and I became a hairdresser. The salon was housed in a massive glass building which also incorporated the town library. A perfect position for me to continue my reading journey. I continued to consume books at an astounding rate of knots and compare myself at this time in my life, to Oliver Jeffers' character in ‘The Incredible Book Eating Boy!’
In my twenties although I travelled excessively, I continued to read, often locating the local library before finding a bed for the night! As I matured flitting through a range of careers, companions, countries and counties I became less compulsive and more choosy. I, with a few other eclectic characters started a book group (before it became the ‘in’ thing to do). I recall my cabin crew colleagues finding it highly amusing that often on a Friday night I would be meeting my fellow book lovers rather than partying the night away at the local club! This first book group that I was a part of didn’t last for long and always involved a few drinks, much laughter and often very little discourse about literature, however it was a meeting of minds and I loved it. At this stage I began to read more of the classics; Tolstoy, Daphne Du Maurier, Alexandre Dumas, to name but a few and also more contemporary fiction.
In my thirties I studied English Literature, Sociology and Psychology as a means to entering university to study to become a teacher. My prolific reading habits were definitely instrumental in my success as an academic and as well as reading for research I continued to read purely for pleasure.
Dare I say it but I am in now in my forties, mid forty nearly but I feel that my passion for prose has only increased. Life has changed enormously…Two babies, now young children, a move to a new country, returning to teaching, an online degree course, and a very recent separation from my best friend and partner have all impacted the time and attention I can give to my love of books, but still it does not diminish…Each encounter with a book adds a new dimension to me, it alters my perspective, magnifies meanings, deepens my understanding, opens me up to new emotions and experiences and ultimately widens my world.
Wells, G. (1986). The Meaning Makers. Portsmouth, Heinemann Educational Books