Paper Doors

No, this post doesn't involve the doors of Japanese hotels, as parodied in an episode of the Simpsons. Although it may seem rather an odd topic for my first post of  2012, I have nothing more interesting to talk about right now than my complete absorption with and adoration of BOOKS.

Now, to be fair, I don't love all books equally. Non-fiction, for the most part, is deadly dull (escapades of famous celebrities, true crime novels, and books about WWII and British aristocracy notwithstanding) and I've never been able to stomach pure sci-fi. I enjoy Romance (surprise surprise), Young Adult fiction, historical fiction (usually) and fantasy. Yes, I read girl books. What else can be expected of...ahem, a girl? Although I did read all of George. R. R. Martin's novels (published to that point) before HBO commissioned the series (also very good, but very HBOish, if you know what I mean). Right now, as I enjoy the last week of my winter break, I have an ever-increasing stack of books demanding my attention and cluttering up my bed, floor, and desk. The bookshelf became a lost cause years ago.

I am notoriously protective of my books, and this causes my sister endless irritation. But because I am more emotionally involved when I read than any other time of my life, I have a hard time sharing my 'doorway-to-another-world' with anyone else. It feels like a violation of my emotional boundaries. (And don't judge me, I can be as eccentric as I want: I'm a writer).

Books, for me, are both an escape and a playground. I vacation in the worlds they open for me, I make friends and learn incredible life lessons. I learned to be observant from reading Nancy Drew stories as a child, and I learned about interpersonal relationships (on all levels) from reading romance novels through high school. You'd be surprised how successful common sense and a bit of conventional wisdom is when applied to real-life scenarioes; after all, romance authors have to make some things universal in order for their books to sell! Perhaps because I have a difficult time opening myself up to others in the real world, it's easier for me to find a release for those feelings in literature. I doubt anyone who doesn't read has such an ecclectic and entertaining group of friends as I do.

I learned to write from reading. My parents tell the story thusly: as a child, it wasn't that I couldn't read, but more that I saw no reason to when I could get either of them (or a friend from school, a teacher, grandparent, etc.) to read to me. However, once I got bored waiting on someone to take the time to read what I wanted, I didn't waste any time. From Ten Apples Up on Top and Dr. Seuss, I moved rapidly to Nate the Great, Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. I was reading The Mists of Avalon at eleven. (Not to boast or anything.) And I was only about seven or eight when I started my first grand epic: a story about me and my pet squirrrel. My vocabulary was ridiculously advanced, even if my grammar and spelling were...creative is the kindest word; atrocious probably the most accurate.

In sixth grade I took a writing class and finally discovered, yes, you can write something other than the usual what-I-did-last-summer. I've been tapping away at my computer ever since, though I spent the first year and half writing in impossibly small print on lined notebook paper and a clipboard. Go figure. Now I count my computer as a necessity, and woe to the person who breaks, borrows, or steals it: I will hunt you down and string you up by your intestines. My life is in this clever little machine, and among its binary codes and files you can see the evolution of my character and my mind.

Reading and writing go hand in hand for me. They are what calm me down, wind me up, release me and chain me to this world. I am grounded by my ability to wrench out whatever's troubling me and splatter it on paper; I am freed by the paper doors that collectively weigh three times what I do.

Those of you familiar with the Pixar film Monsters Inc. will remember the rows of closet doors used to get the monsters from one child's bedroom to another. I think of my books as doors to other worlds, or the means by which I visit friends who've been with me since I was young and stupid(er). My books are mementoes of my journey and have the power to evoke memories and feelings I've otherwise forgotten. I can remember what I read obsessively my first year of real school (age eleven; Anne McCaffery's The Dragonriders of Pern series). I remember when I discovered Nora Roberts' novels (freshman year of high school). Any reader is familiar with time-travel; it happens every time you crack open a book and give your attention to the words on the page. These are my worlds; they have claimed me more strongly than this one, and I have claimed them. Unequivocably.

My sister is never getting her copy of The Host back, Twi-hards and Stephenie Meyer prejudices be damned. Howl's Moving Castle is in here too, somewhere.

Happy New Year!
WolfGrrl