I relate to all of the stories I have read, although I have never traveled to any lands afar than my country. I have not scurried around the earth seeking refuge in a new place, where I hope to see something I have never felt before. Literature has been and will continue to be the definition of the last straw and a better time to come. It will drive you in the dark professing a love that can only be labeled as dangerous, but each time it feels better than being safe.
When I was a young girl stacking Nancy Drew books by my waist side in the library, I thought there was nothing better than being teleported halfway into life without knowing what would happen next. Its suspense of turning each page adamantly hoping to find answers, though when answers were not found I hugged each book close to my chest. I clung to it as if this is who I was; a heroine, a villain and alas something more…human. The bravery of the American Girl books, The Royal Diaries and C.S. Lewis’ books triple-dog-dared me to be brave. I don’t suppose there is anything wrong with not being brave but there is some level of fear that makes us move forward. I don’t remember exactly when I began writing or why, it was a natural inclination that these words must come out and I cannot suppress them any longer. On Mother’s Day in 3rd grade I wrote a poem so enmeshed with emotion it would reflect a love letter. Now I remind you that I fought with my mother as most young children do when planning their birthday party that their mother knew nothing about until the day before. More than ten kids were coming with an invitation mimicking the Lisa Frank era. I fought extra hard to squeeze the words out of my hand, straining past my wrist and finally onto the paper how much I loved her.
People do not write to be read. No? One writes to let go of the things that happen around them or in them that can no longer reside in themselves alone. In retrospect, people who read for the sake of reading; gather information quickly, skimming over certain parts to find the right plug-ins and scarcely see craft, perhaps. Those who cherish books dearly, clinging them to their chest, missing nights of valuable sleep and discussing endlessly why the book was brilliant or completely terrible are people I fall in love with. You see it isn’t about whether the book was necessarily good enough to make the Best Sellers list, no it was the book simply being given the opportunity to be read.
When I was in high school, we read the novel ‘Lord of the Flies’ and had to write an enormous essay concerning it. Oh, how much I hated the book. I groaned and wailed that it was awful, while slipping in words of what it was actually about in as well. Our class analyzed it and those who felt comfortable enough to enter the round table discussion taking place in the middle of the classroom, stated their stance. The maracas shook and our teacher added more insight to what she felt would be valuable in our prompt. What themes were represented? What about good versus evil? At the end of the semester, I complained about the book entirely too much but I remembered it for what it was. I remembered the literary jokes that came with it and I remembered it enough to be like most people who brag carelessly oh yes, I have read that book. What do you mean you haven’t?
Literature revolves the universe, whether it’s fan-fiction, sci-fi or good ol’ Jane Eyre. Literature has a place whether we have experienced most of its stomach contents or not; love,lust,jealousy, goodness, evil and existentialism. By default, we have experienced all of these.
When I was a young girl thumbing through the seventeen magazine at the age of twelve in the doctor’s office, I realized words have a way of changing what we believe and who we say we are. Words are significant far as image, but it doesn’t mean we will not change our mind what we think later on.