I’ve been pondering for a little while what it was that sparked my initial need to write.
It’s a familiar story really; one far more commonplace than I originally anticipated. My interest in picking up a pencil began at the tender age of eight years old. I used a pencil as it was easier to correct (maybe my OCD tendencies were kicking in all those years ago too?) and it meant I could also illustrate at the same time. I loved drawing too and it just made sense. But I digress.
I cannot remember a time when I didn’t read. I cannot remember having books in my life. I do remember being a good reader when I was younger. I would rip through the reading books sent home from school and soon began to need more. I would read the Walter Farley ‘Black Stallion’ series, and whizz through ‘Nancy Drew’ books. Limited by age and how much was available to spend on more books, I remember grabbing paper and a writing tool and scribing my own stories. These were usually based around ponies and my protagonist was generously awarded at least five gorgeous creatures. I was horse-mad but pony-less.
Writing allowed me to have all the things I wanted but couldn’t have. Reading provided an escape from the rainy days where I was stuck inside.
Books were (and still are to me) a million different worlds filled with shiny new friends, swaddled in cardboard covers. My children are actively encouraged to read what interests them, but I do not enforce it. The option of reading books is always offered as a way for them to research subjects, even when they can do a two-second search on the internet (which can often distract them with ‘more interesting’ things to click on). One picks up a book more than the other, but they both read by choice. Just as I do.
You see, there’s something comforting about having a book in my hand. It’s a sensory experience. That old or new book smell. The feeling of the paper between my fingers as I turn a leaf. The monochrome beauty of words on the page. The sensation of the world drifting away as I become so engrossed I lose myself and become cocooned in an almost soundless bubble of fiction.
Yes – I love books. They are wonderful.
T.F. Webb 