For most of my young life, I was a book-aholic. I was always trying to get finished with my assignments so I could read some more, had bookshelves and bookshelves full of books I'd read and couldn't bear to part with, was always immersing myself in some other life via the printed word. I had a nightlight next to my bed all the way through high school- not because I was afraid of the dark but because then I could read all night long without getting caught by my parents. When I read I would become fully immersed in the book. A soundtrack would run through my mind. I would BE there. And leaving would be like ripping myself out of a new home, one I may have felt more comfortable in than my own. Looking back in the past, I always saw that I had been using books to escape. To run away from my own reality into something else. Now I'm wondering if there was something else at play, too.
When I became a mother, I gave up fiction. I actually wrote about it here. I believed that I got too grumpy, the ripping out was too painful, and I turned into a mother that I didn't want to be when I read fiction because of how deeply I got into it. So I just quit, and instead I read non-fiction that I could easily put down when interrupted.
When I became a mother, I gave up fiction. I actually wrote about it here. I believed that I got too grumpy, the ripping out was too painful, and I turned into a mother that I didn't want to be when I read fiction because of how deeply I got into it. So I just quit, and instead I read non-fiction that I could easily put down when interrupted.
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