|The scene of the crime.|
This got me thinking about all the other, um, problematic things I do (or fail to do) as a reader. Once I got going, it was hard to stop.
I place books open and upside down to hold my spot. I don't care about the spine getting broken.
I eat while I read, and I leave smudges (usually chocolate).
I let my kids watch movies before they've read the book. Then I don't even make them read the book.
If I visit a blog, and don't recognize any of the books, instead of thinking, "Oh, I could learn so much on this blog!" I think "Not interested" and never come back.
It took me way too long to see the racism and genocide lurking in every single pioneer/ covered wagon/ Oregon trail story. I still have to fight the urge to make excuses for cultural appropriation and insensitivity in Eleanor and Park and Ghosts.
I have spent well over a thousand dollars buying books for my classroom library this year, then I turn around and tell my kids we're too broke to go out for dinner.
Of all the attributes of youth I've lost--eating like a pig without gaining weight, having energy all day long, not having any serious responsibilities, doing headstands, drinking strong men under the table and waking up feeling fine the next day--the one I miss most is being able to read in a car without getting nauseated. Well, okay, it's really the "not having serious responsibilities" one, but reading in a car is definitely second.
I don't read to my kids every day. I don't even read to them every week, although when we're involved in a book, that's not the case.
When I was a teenager, someone casually referred to me as "well-read" and I was so flattered that I spent the next ten years trying to prove them right. Most of my classics and serious lit-ra-chur reading came during this time period. Okay, this sounds like a humble-brag to me, because I still can't quite shake that feeling that a) being "well-read" is an actual, quantifiable thing and b) it's something that would make me better than other "less well-read" people. WHAT IS THIS NONSENSE?!?
Ursula Le Guin is my literary idol. I accidentally sold a book she'd signed to me because when the buyer said, "oh, and it's signed!" I was too embarrassed to snatch it back from him. *Kicks self.*
I totally believed the whole "story behind the story" thing with The Princess Bride and actually argued about it with a colleague who was teaching the book.
I used to sneak-read the smut books my dad kept by his bedside. I was appalled by some bits ("She put his WHAT in her mouth? Why would she do that?") but fascinated overall. Then my parents caught me showing my best friend, and they told her parents, and her mom laughed at us. It was horrifying.
I pretend I shop at local independent bookstores because it's the right thing to do, but actually it's because I can't stand waiting for books to be delivered, and I love wandering around looking at books.
|Look at those awnings. Wouldn't you rather walk down this street than fill a cart online?|
Which of these confessions horrify you the most? Which can you relate to? Best of all--WHAT NEW AND DIFFERENT BOOK CONFESSIONS do you have?
I don't have a pool, by the way. My kid wisely made friends with a kid who lives in an apartment complex with a pool, and in exchange for being the adult in charge, I got to spend a few hours there yesterday. This is what we mean when we tell our children "Make good choices."