When you think of reading, you think of a solitary activity, don’t you? I do. Reading has always been a solo venture for me. Of course, in the beginning, I had to have help with it – my mother would read to me, or help me read for myself by pointing out errors in pronunciation or helping me with context by either explaining words that I didn’t understand, or later on, pointing me towards the massive Concise Oxford that sat on the bookshelf. Still, none of that was particularly social. It was more a matter of supervised, or
When I am reading, I tend to fidget with things – my fingernails, the edge of a page, my hair, anything I can get my hands on. It’s a nervous habit borne out of restlessness. But I also believe that part of it is due in some part to this new generation of instant-gratification technology. I know. It sounds like I am blaming technology for my own short-comings. Yet another malady that is showing up more and more in our lives – laying blame outside of ourselves. But allow me to muse on that other issue for a
On occasion, I have chosen to avoid reading a particular book because I was hesitant about what people might think of me for reading it. When I first read Stephen King’s “It”, the cover at the time was a fairly nondescript cover which didn’t give much away: it was simply an image of a storm drain with a distinctly reptilian hand reaching out towards a paper boat bobbing in the gutter. Ominous, yes; but not as scary as some of the newer covers I’ve seen – especially the one with Tim Curry’s sinister clown-face and shocking red hair.