I was a late reader. Either my early teachers weren’t very good…or I loved being read to just a bit too much…whatever it was, it wasn’t until the summer I turned 8…and heading into the second grade, for the second time…that reading clicked for me. That summer I went from the reading level of a kindergarten student…to a middle school level. Even more, I discovered that I enjoyed reading. No. Scratch that. I loved reading. I needed to read. I moved on from my Dr. Seuss to The Berenstein Bears to The Babysitters Club and never looked back.
Naturally, I figured that it only made sense that the next step would become a writer. Thankfully, I enjoyed the process of writing. Maybe not quite as much as I did when I was reading…but I enjoyed it and over time, I developed a passion for writing.
Much like the escape I found in novels, I discovered I found the same relief and escape in my writing. As a teen, through college, and throughout my adult years I wrote. I kept paper journals, online journals, and blogs. And I found that I got complete satisfaction from those outlets.
I can’t count how many novels I started and then abandoned. I just couldn’t seem to find that excitement I found when I was blogging. For years, I sort of berated myself for this fact. I blamed myself for not being able to commit…even though that’s kind of ridiculous. I commit to my jobs, sometimes a bit too much. I committed to my relationship with hubby despite a multitude of reasons I could have grasped. I’ve committed to keeping journals and blogs for years now. So no, I just don’t think it’s a commit thing.
Instead, I’m realizing that I am a reader. That is where my love is.
I’m exploring ways to expand my passion for reading. I have a few ideas (no, no real desire to become an English teacher), but for now I feel a little better admitting to myself that I’m probably NOT going to produce a novel. Instead, I’ll probably continue typing away in my little spot on the internet. And feel satisfied with that.