I spent a large chunk of my primary school years reading books. They absorbed me until the wee hours of the morning until I would choose rationally, guiltily, and regretfully to put the book down. At school I can recall spending far too long browsing the shelves of the library desperately hoping I would find something interesting. Alas, I was often dissatisfied and disheartened with the quality of the stories I read. Because of this I read and re-read my favourite authors: Judy Blume, Roald Dahl, John Marsden to name a few.
It's no doubt they've influenced my writing, but in recent years I stopped reading novels, feeling I was wasting precious time that could be used being productive. It's such a sad way to live, I realised this week, when the joy of reading returned. On Tuesday I felt compelled to read Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. I'd seen the movies, but fared from the books, acting upon the rumour I had heard that she wasn't very good at writing. But the story took me immediately- and I lost myself in it, forgetting where I was, not even realising I was reading, turning pages, living someone else's concoction. I've missed that feeling. I think I will make it my priority to read more. My English teacher long ago said I would be a better writer if I did.
Don't judge a book by its cover,
Its dull pages, or cramped fontsize.
Don't open its pages with expectations,
preconceptions, or limitations.
Don't hurry through to know the last line,
It's about the journey not the destination.
Don't close it in grief for its ending come,
Be glad for the life that was lived then done.
