I love books. I suppose this does not come as a great shock to you. And yet, after reading Barbara Vey's blog today, I feel like a little more explanation is required.
We moved...a lot...when I was kid. Every few years, my dad would receive a new call and we'd be off to a new town, new school, new everything. Often the only person I really knew in the entire school building was my little (not so much now) brother, and that was only when we were young enough to both be in elementary school. (We're four grades apart...well, we were when we were both in school). I wasn't the best or easiest new kid to befriend, either. I was, let's face it, weird, had absolutely no fashion sense and was prone to storytelling in the form of lying. (Hell, I could spin some wild ones--my brother being poisoned by cyanide is the one that springs to mind immediately--the only problem was when I inevitably got caught. Still, it was probably good practice, especially on the concept of willing suspension of disbelief.)
Books were what kept from me feeling too sad and too lonely. Familiar characters became friends, reliable ones who didn't care that I didn't have the latest charm for my plastic charm necklace (remember those?) or that I'd gone up to the blackboard (yep, I'm that old) with my zipper open or that I had no clue how to answer in math class when called upon.
Books were the ultimate comfort and escape hatch for me, the perpetually socially awkward one. They provided the chance to live other lives without abandoning my own.
In college, my then boyfriend, now husband, liked to tease me because I never went anywhere without a book. Once, we were in the grocery store and he spotted a book peeking out of my coat pocket. True, I had a legit reason. I was an English major and assigned to read more literary novels than any human being could possibly wade through (or want to wade through) in a semester. And yet, that wasn't entirely it. Books are the equivalent of a security blanket for me. If I'm trapped alone in an uncomfortable situation, I can always pull out a book and disappear for a few minutes. When I'm done, even if it's just a chapter or a few pages, I feel better, more grounded, more relaxed, better able to handle whatever is happening.
Flying is the perfect example. I hate flying. I like going places, but I HATE flying. It's a control thing, I know, but the truth of the matter is, it scares me. People read on planes because they're not allowed (at least, not for the entire flight) to run electronic devices. I read because I need desperately to be somewhere else for however long that flight lasts. This is why I always bring at least three books even on the shortest flights. One might not turn out to be the right match for my mood, and I'm a fast reader, so I need to have at least two in reserve.
When my uncle died unexpectedly a few years ago, it was a devastating shock. I would have to fly without my husband, who was traveling on business already, which meant I would be without the one person who tolerated my hand squeezing nervousness during takeoff and landing. Then, once I got there, it would a visitation and funeral for someone I loved.
Before we left, I went to the bookstore and bought--I remember this distinctly--$99 worth of new books. I was not taking any chances on running out. So, on that trip, at the end of the day, in my hotel room, when my eyes were red and swollen from crying and my whole body ached with grief (not just for my own loss, but for my family's loss as well), I curled up in bed with a book. And for those few minutes when I was reading, I got the teensiest bit of relief, a little escape, which helped me make it through. Everyone has their coping mechanism; that was mine.
I'm grateful to all the authors who have provided those comforting escapes through their stories. And I hope, one day, that one of my books will do the same for someone else.
