Last Monday, One More Page asked, “How did you become a reader?”
I honestly can’t remember. There wasn’t one cause, wasn’t one turning point. There are snippets.
- As a child, sleeping over at a friend’s house, a friend who read in bed without fail before turning out the light. I couldn’t understand the appeal. Why read?
- Taking Jaws off my parents’ shelf before it was age-appropriate. I have no idea how far I got, but remember it impressed the adults.
- Owning a book-and-record set (yes, record) of Alice in Wonderland. Looking at the illustrations as I listened to the story again and again.
And then there’s my name. How could I not love reading when I’m so tied to a book? If you’re not aware, Galadriel is a ruler of the elves in J.R.R. Tolkien’s trilogy The Lord of the Rings. The heft of the books always intimidated me until I realized if I could easily read three separate similar-sized books, why couldn’t I read three that tie together? And so, in my early 20s, it was finally done.
Somehow those tidbits of experience linked together until I became the voracious reader I am now. I have learned to read in bed—in fact find it a necessity to do so. I carry a book with me always. I have a stack of unread books, yet still slip into libraries to take out more. When I’m in a bookstore, I find it difficult to walk out empty-handed. I give books as gifts, even to people who don’t adore reading, assuming that with the right book, they’ll one day see the light.
For books offer escape and information and promise. And as a writer, they’re necessary research: tools for learning what to do and what not to do. A literary foundation upon which I can blaze my own way.