In the beginning . . .

Well folks, thank you for the encouragement sent my way thus far. I'm not sure how frequently I will be posting, but my goal is in the two or three times a week range. Sometimes more, sometimes less, we'll see how it goes. For a type A personality, I'm surprising noncommittal about these things. I've thought up quite a few topics for posts, so that should keep things going for some time yet, and after that, well we'll just have to see. Some advice regarding blogging has been really helpful, but as of now I'm not entirely sure what my goals are with this blog. I somewhat feel that I've taken a bit of a blind step, with vague ideas as to where this road goes, and what my purpose is.

Still,

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

The Fellowship of the Ring, by JRR Tolkein, chapter 1.

So my friends, I'll pursue my vague outline, which means that in this post I will tell you about the birth of my love of reading. My parents are both avid readers, as is my Grandma Lyman. My earliest memories of books are tied to memories of my mom, snuggled with her as she read to us Are You My Mother, Hooper Humperdink, and a large variety of Dr Seuss gems. In fact, I believe my parents had signed up for one of those children's book clubs that send a book every so often, and these books are still in their basement for their grandchildren's delight. One book in particular, Oh the Thinks You Can Think is worn and taped up, but my mom can still recite the first 10 or so pages from memory, that's how often I asked for it to be read! I remember the rhythm to the rhyming words, the colourful ideas on the pages, the strange words that I found out were made up (many) years later. One page in particular sent chills up my spine: "And what would you do, if you met a jiboo?" The picture is of a child running across the fictional jiboo on a darkened street, the jiboo having a slight bird-like look to him. I don't know if it's the bird-like part, but I always found that scary.

When I learned to read on my own, I could often be found curled up in some contorted position perusing a book. Both my parents often lost themselves in books, and I think this example encouraged me to continue reading. I was, and still am lucky enough to be able to read in the car, so that often was my occupation of choice on longer drives. The next type of book that makes an impression on my memory was The Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I read Little House on the Prairie, and my love for historical fiction was born. It's still my favourite genre, though I've mentioned before that I like a wide variety of books. Not only did the stories of the Ingalls family interest me, it was the details that held my fascination. I loved reading about how this family went about their day, their chores, how they made maple syrup, built cabins, wore corsets, and wrote on slates. Looking back at those books, especially the earlier ones in the series, the plot is not very eventful, but you are transported to the pioneer life. My baba always said she only read The Long Winter in the summer time, so she could cool off!

I read some other series growing up, the contemporary Sweet Valley series, and The Babysitters' Club. In sixth or seventh grade I went through a horse phase like many girls that age, and read The Black Stallion. Again, it wasn't so much the plot that held my interest, it was the details of caring for, riding, and racing horses that I enjoyed. I think this was when the power of books to take me to another place or life really took root in my psyche. I could imagine myself in these stories, doing what the characters were doing. I don't think it's a coincidence that this was when my interest in drama appeared in my life, for acting is merely the ability to take that imaginary picture in your mind and portray it for other people.

The next formative series I read was Anne of Green Gables by LM Montgomery. I believe I was twelve when my family visited Uncle Howard in Calgary, a family friend. His girlfriend at the time, Norma, had found out I had never read about Anne, and said that no Canadian girl should grow up without reading about her. I started the book while there, and for Christmas my parents gave me the box set. I could revel in Anne's imagination, and although mine has not got me into as much trouble as hers, I could relate to how she was often carried away!

In high school I was introduced to classic literature. Grade 9 English brought me A Tale of Two Cities, and that was the start of my obsession with Charles Dickens. He remains one of my favourite writers, mostly for the dry wit of his humorous sections. The man is the king of sarcasm. Romeo and Juliet taught me to enjoy Shakespeare, but it was The Taming of the Shrew that my grade 9 drama class saw performed live that sent me searching for the play, and reading more of his comedies. Languages have come fairly easily to me over the years, and reading Shakespeare feels like translating a secret code. Can I make a confession? I read it alone because I usually read it out loud. I love the feel of the words rolling off my tongue, the cadence of them, even when they're not poetic. This is generally frowned upon in public. My horizons have been expanded by Jane Austen and the Brontes in my late teens and early twenties.

On a whim one day, I borrowed a book from my dad's bookshelf. I had seen an old dramatized version of the story several times as a kid, but never with a real impression of the plot. That book was The Fellowship of the Ring, the first book of JRR Tolkein's Lord of the Rings. This accidental pick was the beginning of an obsession lasting many years. Indeed, I'm not entirely sure I'm cured of it. You see, fantasy was a genre I had read a few books in here or there, but they were short reads, good for a brief distraction. I never felt any attachment to the genre, and usually skipped over it while browsing at the bookstore. But Frodo and Sam immediately dashed any preconceived notions I had of what would be waiting for me between those covers. Maybe because I had recently left home at the age of 19, and was even more sensitive to new experiences, or maybe the story touched a vague memory of the film version (which was really not that good, sorry Dad!). Maybe Middle Earth called to me, as it seems to call to all who feel kinship with its citizens. Whatever the reason, my geekometer went off the charts, and at the end of the book, I was desperate for more. After reading The Two Towers, and The Return of the King, I experienced my first end-of-series-depression. Once you finish a series, you realize you can never read it again for the first time. Some of you may be thinking "um, no kidding," but others will know what I mean.

Anyway, Tolkein is so fabulous that I think I'll have to save a separate blog post for him. This post ended up being much longer than I expected, so if you've made it to this sentence, congratulations! Thank you for your patience as I've tried to trace my journey to where I am today. What has formed your love for books? What are some of the life-changing stories you've read?