We all have those life-changing experiences -- the kind that haunt you, twist at your guts, make you feel like going down twice and only coming up once. The ones that change you for the rest of your life, give you nightmares, affect the way you look at people. Well, this post isn't about one of those. It's about the kind that changes your life, sure, scars you a bit, yeah, but isn't exactly life-threatening.
It happened when I was eleven.
I had been reading quite voraciously, inhaling books, if you must know. It was an addiction. In fact, my father had told me that if he caught me with a book again, he'd whip my butt. Now,
before you gasp in horror and ring for the Child Protection Services, let it be known that I grew up in a book-loving family. Our family activities revolved around books and reading and magazines and anything literary. I remember cuddling up to my dad in the fourth grade as he read
Romeo and Juliet aloud to me, and I would often be handed the
Scientific American and told to read such and such article. If I didn't understand, my dad would just tell me, "Keep reading." And then we'd discuss it when I was done.
When I was three, my parents thought I'd clamber into the nearest car of the first person who
talked to me and disappear. I was that curious and that out-going. Once I learned how to read, however, I realized that I didn't have to go off exploring the world. I could safely bury myself in a book, and mom and dad wouldn't be worried. Despairing that I'd ever enjoy the beauty of a sunset or the scent of sunlight in pines again, my parents set up certain rules. One of these consisted of hours in the garden each day, weeding.The withering sun, the dry baked dirt... But I digress. The real life-changing experience came when they insisted that I read a book of their choice for every one of mine.
Because I loved reading, it didn't matter if I was reading a book written in 1806, 1906, or 1986. But when I was eleven, my dad handed me
Gone With the Wind. I'm not exaggerating when I say that reading the book destroyed me. Like the scent of old perfume that transports you back
to Grandma's house or the strains of an old
song that swirls you into the arms of your prom date, just the title of that book sickens the pit of my stomach. I wasn't old enough or mature enough or hardened enough by life to enter into
Scarlett's world. I tore through it, just like any other book, but when I read those last words on that last page, I thought I was going to throw up. I don't think my parents even noticed that I spent the next three days in bed, bawling my guts out. I'm sure they just thought I was holed up with another book.
I felt like a part of me died that day. And thinking back, I still feel sick and there's a lump in my throat I can't quite swallow that has nothing to do with Scarlett and everything to do with the loss of innocence.
And the long-term impact of such an experience? I hate drama. I excuse myself from any in the real world that flares up around me. I just don't play. And for the literary world, I despise books that wallow in it, characters that thrive on it, and authors who capitalize on it. I don't read those kinds of books. Don't get me wrong, I love books that explore the range of emotions a human can encompass, but I don't seek out the kind that tears your guts out. And I'm always on the look out for a fun romp minus the messiness of angst. So
Stormbreaker, here I come!
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