Most of my childhood was spent with my nose in a book, even if it was the five minutes from school to home but somewhere along the way that stopped. Somewhere in time things got complicated and I stopped thinking and reading. I wanted to just read and when I did that without thinking well I didn't understand the books. Even a simple fourth grade reading level book that I read at least twice in the period from fifth grade to entering high school and neither time did I understand it. As a second year college senior I sat on the floor outside of the dance studio where my eight am pilates class was held I read it with utter fascination that I finally was able to understand what was going on. I wanted to cry because it was so beautiful and I wished that I hadn't spent all of those years thinking that it was a horrible book. This was also the same way I felt as a college freshman in a remedial math class when I finally understood the particulars of graphing functions and how to figure them out. (I still however do not understand the particulars of figuring out how to make a mixed nut combination that costs $4.99 a pound.)
I've been thinking a lot about why that book never appealed to my mind. I'm not sure if I was in such a hurry to read it that I couldn't create Wales in my head or that I didn't understand how the past and the present could so seamlessly glide back and forth.
I am still in awe of what I am seeing in the Lord of the Rings movies that I wondered why I hated The Hobbit that I never even attempted to read the trilogy. But at the same time I could jump into just about any of the Dragon Riders of Pern books and still desire to read even more of them. I think that I've read six of the books in that magnificent series and know that there are more that I have yet to read. I think the last time I had that bug I couldn't find them in the public library.
I will talk more about my obsession with books.
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