Posted in Books, writing

Painful Reality: When Fiction is Just a Construct

You never really think about your relationship with books being anything too unusual.  I mean, it’s painfully clear if you’re a reader that not everyone is a reader, and that you’re a bit different if you’re a book lover.  That’s made obvious early and often by the popular people over the years.

[Image: A white woman’s arms (the body is in shadow), open an large old book. Dust flies out of the book in the shape of a heart.]
What I’m talking about is that deeper relationship with books that is a lot closer to obsession.

In my case, I began reading before I was speaking all that much, and was the kind of baby who would escape my crib to go find the books (or toys; I woke up at night a lot and would get myself out of bed to where the action was).  One time, I threw all the books I could find into my crib and cried because, while I had mastered getting out of the crib, getting back in wasn’t possible.  I needed those books.

My mother doesn’t per-se remember teaching me to read.  I just figured it out.

Side note: reading early has nothing to do with reading ability or intelligence, and late readers catch up.  The teacher in me needs to tell you that.

But I digress.

The point I am making is that my relationship with books was different from my relationship with people.  At night, books and the odd toy could comfort me, but people were unnecessary.

Continue reading “Painful Reality: When Fiction is Just a Construct”