"I Took a Deep Breath and Listened to the Old Brag of My Heart. I am, I am, I am"

I think like most people, I truly learned to love reading when I was in high school. I'm sure it was a combination of being old enough to pick up a certain novel and have it reach down into your gut and pull out something that you never even suspected was there in the first place. Or that one character who you were certain mirrored YOU, and that you were certain YOU connected to the way that no one else ever had (and I'm guessing at least half of you are thinking to yourself, "Holden Caulfield WAS me"). And I admit to being equally as much of a cliche by quoting Sylvia Plath, because when I read The Bell Jar, she knocked me right off my seat, certain that I WAS Esther Greenwood. You know, minus all those kooky psychiatric issues and and that whole suicide attempt thing. But certainly was Esther Greenwod in the regard of wanting to forge my own path and identity regardless of what society felt that should be.

So in high school when I took my first real literature class, it certainly changed my life. To read Catcher in the Rye. And One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. And 1984. And A Farewell to Arms. To discover the world contained in these books was like nothing I've ever known before. Books that told a story so moving and complex, with words that were intentional, and elaborate, and remarkable, truly changed what I thought reading could be. I was fortunate enough to have a teacher to allowed us to discover the books on our own, but to also prod us enough to really think about what was there. What could be there. What was there that we may not even be paying attention to.

And I never really forgot that. So every time I start something new, there is always a joy in knowing that what is contained between the covers in 300 pages or so is something so wonderful, or thought-provoking, or reaction-inciting, or terrifying, or exquisite. And I'm the fortunate enought to able to experience it all and create all that it could be up in my own little noggin.

So I am grateful for something as simple as a beginner's lit class in high school (thanks Mrs. ED!) for the places that it has taken me. Regardless of where that ends up being in the long run, the act of opening up a book and reading will always contain a prospect of joy and anticipation, in the dorkiest, book-nerdiest way possible.

And thus concludes my cheezy, "stay in school", "books are cool", "I heart reading" PSA for the day.

Pg 34/293 in The Age of Innocence. Not for lack of trying. Or lack of liking. Just lack of time. I have long flight this week during which I plan to do nothing but read (and maybe then have a panic attack when I get off the plane for losing 5 whole hours of work work time). 1870s NY, here I come!

BTW, did you know that Edith Wharton was the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for fiction for Age of Innocence? If you retain nothing from this post (or this blog for that matter), file that little tidbit of trivia away. I'm sure it'll come in good use one day at bar trivia night.