reading

My mother has always been avid about reading, sometimes more so than myself. During my youngest days, she would read me to bed each night, and as I grew older, I was reading to her. When I discovered the Goosebumps series in the second grade, I would relay the latest twists and turns of each chapter to her with childish fervor. As far as I was aware, she paid close attention to my ramblings. By the time I was in the fifth grade, I had gravitated toward the lumbering shelf of books that was in our living room. It was comprised mostly of Mary Higgins Clark, a mystery and suspense writer. Intrigued, I went to my mother and asked her about them. She went on to tell me about her lifelong love of Mary Higgins Clark, and how Clark had been responsible for her interest in reading.

Hey guys, so I decided this week that this whole book thing is pretty stupid. I mean, you spends hours, days, weeks, even, looking at a bunch of tiny words on a flimsy piece of paper (or eBook screens if you’re feeency) and putting them together to make some kind of meaning in your already overwhelmed brain. Frankly, I’d rather keep trying to beat the 114th level of Candy Crush, because let me tell you --- that’s some lasting sa-tis-faction.