Like every writer, I hated reading. Wait… every writer loves reading and can’t wait to curl up in front of a fire and crack open a new book? Really? Well, then, this just got awkward. Let me start again.
Like every writer, I was born holding a pen while finishing the last few pages of Fox In Socks. I put the book down and looked up at the doctor. “Let’s have a little talk about tweetle beetles,” I said, taking the blanket from the nurse and patting my book dry. That’s not true either.
The truth is that I was extremely ADD in middle school and mostly ADD in high school. Books? I’d try to read them, but the words just fled through the cluttered caverns of my mind like scared mice, eventually forced to make suicidal jumps from my ears out into nothing. I tried. I’d set timers. I’d do a bunch of jumping jacks before I started so I was tired. I’d pace. I’d put on music (seriously who CAN’T read while Chopin is serenading them?). I’d turn the music off. Nothing. Twenty wasted minutes later and I’d have flipped through five pages and remembered none of them. It was hopeless.
But then God slowed my brain down. My 20’s were spent checking off an ever-growing list of books hungry for more of the worlds and adventures they possessed. I suddenly understood what all of the hype was about: books packed more emotional punch than movies, they gave me something while I read them, they challenged and enriched my life. I was hooked.
So here I am, a recovering book hater turned writer. God has a sense of humor, doesn’t he?