hungry for words…

although i read slooooooowly, and am horrible at recalling details upon inquiry, i am a voracious consumer of books; and have been my whole life… feasting on books began literally: as an infant i chewed on any title from the golden books series – a smart tactic that mum employed to keep me occupied in my stroller while she checked errands off of her list.

once my reading skills developed, dad secured a monthly book subscription through a local boutique lovingly managed by sara brant called the children’s bookshoppe… every few weeks i would receive a brand new book, chosen by sara herself, with a hand-written note expressing why she thought i might enjoy the newest title… from mystery, to adventure, to classic prose; she was great at sharing an assortment that any child could joyfully transport themselves through… several titles arrived personally inscribed by the author, and sometimes even the illustrator… i still have a handful of these treasures tucked away… there is one title, in particular, that i have purchased numerous times in recent years for my friends’ children: king bidgood’s in the bathtub – it is a fun, giggle-worthy tale; with truly superb illustrations…

as a pre-teen, and well into my teenage years, i relished weekends for the sheer opportunity to visit a bookstore and spend any money i had received as a gift or from babysitting on more books that i could devour during those two brief days… tucked away in my bedroom, i would curl up in my cozy armchair and get lost in the latest mystery i had selected… reading for hours on end, i would be unaware of the sun setting outside. the light would diminish, and as my parents would retrieve me for dinner, they’d kindly remind me that reading in such a dim setting was putting too much strain on my eyes…

during high school i glommed on to true crime novels – the more gruesome the details, the more enthralling to me… i recall sitting at my desk in drafting class, speeding through the latest mechanical drawing so i could dive back into vincent bugliosi’s ‘helter skelter’ in between tasks… glimpses of ‘a father’s story’ by lionel dahmer come to mind as well, as i try to remember the sordid tales that occupied my time while i’d wait for classes to begin… (although my curriculum incorporated required titles, those always took a back seat to my latest acquisition…)

my first trip to paris, though, at the age of twenty, really set the tone for my preferred genres. already missing the city of light on my flight back home, i didn’t want to let go of the surroundings i had just been immersed in. not long after landing, i headed to the bookstore to scour the history and biography sections; and sought out french lifestyle books as well… in between my college courses and assorted jobs i traveled back to paris through the pages of the various titles i had collected… through the simple desire to revisit the sights i had admired, i learned the fascinating histories behind each and became all the more captivated…

it dawned on me that i had no patience for fiction, unless it was classic and has held a place in culture… why would i want to read about something that hadn’t happened, or couldn’t happen; when i could read about something that actually had? that perspective continues all these years later…

although my fascination with paris has tapered off a little (i’ve probably read every book ever printed on the subject anyway) my interest in history and biographies continue, and selections are shaped by recent travels and documentaries… the french section of our library is beginning to wane next to the manhattan section that has been growing rapidly these past couple of years… furthermore, points of interest have broadened; and essay collections by david sedaris, nora ephron, and carrie fisher are interspersed for amusing perspectives…

all-in-all i am generally quite pleased with the titles i choose to read. most of what i select keeps me engaged, and the pages flipping. on rare occasion, though, i’ll end up with a dud – such instances are, miraculously (given the vast inventory from which to select) few and far between… however, i landed on a bad lot recently that had me doubting my ability to suss out the best choices anymore: i went through three books, consecutively, that i had to abandon part-way… not finishing a book gnaws at me, but slogging my way through one that is dry, or too abstract grates on me more… i put the third one down feeling defeated, and was reluctant to select the fourth attempt – will it be lackluster too? is it just me? has the way i read changed? i tried to silence my concerns, and chose a book from the stack on my desk haphazardly: ‘save me the plums – my gourmet memoir’ by ruth reichl… i turned the introductory pages timidly until i reached chapter one, and within those first ten pages i was instantly swept up in the story she was so eloquently illustrating… i noticed myself breathing a massive sigh of relief, and feeling at peace… the images she describes are so vividly clear, and the tempo with which she writes has such a natural conversational feel… i am feeling that electric buzz that radiates from such articulation and i think to myself, “this is why i read…”