“Reading [is] my escape and my comfort, my consolation, my stimulant of choice: reading for the pure pleasure of it, for the beautiful stillness that surrounds you when you hear an author’s words reverberating in your head.”
Paul Auster, The Brooklyn Follies
There is something to be said about the power that beholds a human being with a pen in their hand.
Surely, most often, their objective is not to create works that bring happiness to people of various ages, that can inspire change, or that hold knowledge that could bring fulfillment to its reader. However, a writer surpasses common script when they choose to do their work with a meaningful purpose that benefits others, and give an outlet for introspection and imagination.
There are far too many examples of writers of this sort to list. However, when a child is given the ability to read these writings that people have put to the feet of the world to pick up and to indulge it can be quite the impetus for something brilliant.
Unfortunately, this is often not taken for granted.
I love reading. But…I remember I hated it. When I was about five years old, I didn’t want any parts of it. Nevertheless, I did love stories. I made them up every day when I would play with my siblings. I loved hearing my mom read them to me. I loved the warm and dreamy feeling they gave me. Thankfully, I eventually became more open-minded, and I graduated to reading chapter books with pictures. I would read about 100 pages every night before I slept, but only because of my academic obligation. When I did finally start reading books without pictures, after much encouragement, everything changed for me. I could see the imagery of the story that the writer was describing, like a movie playing in my mind. It was as if time had stopped. I had entered another world, another universe. Such a powerful object it was, that I was holding in my hands.