I confess…I inherited my love of reading from my mom who got it from her dad.
I confess…one of my most vivid memories of my grandfather was of him showing me the etymology of the word melancholy during one of his regular dictionary readings. Thirty years later, I still remember the word parts. If only he had chosen a happier word…
I confess…as a child, I loved to get lost in the world of books: Little House on the Prairie, The Boxcar Children, the Witch of Blackbird Pond, The Whipping Boy, anything by Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume, the Sweet Valley High series…
I confess…I even read a few of my mom’s romance novels, probably before I even ever had my first kiss.
I confess…my love of reading wasn’t the primary reason I became an English teacher but it sure didn’t hurt.
I confess…I primarily went into teaching because I received a full scholarship to college as long as I agreed to teach, and if I was going to teach, well, English seemed like a natural enough fit.
I confess…things worked out like they were supposed to because I was meant to teach—to teach literature and writing and words and children and now adults…
I confess…my favorite book ever is The Great Gatsby. Do I see a bit of myself in the hopeless dreamer, Jay?
I confess…my favorite book to teach is All Quiet on the Western Front, which is odd, because I generally don’t like war-related anything. Could it be that I love the idea that we are all more the same than different?
I confess…for a (now-former) English teacher, I don’t read nearly as much as I think I should or wish I did.
I confess…my Nook went so long unused that the battery is ruined.
I confess…while my Nook gathered dust, I did read books in hard copy. As much as I like technology, there’s something about holding and smelling a book, about dog-earring a coffee-stained page.
I confess…I tend to follow the crowd when it comes to reading books. I’ve read all the Harry Potter books, the Twilight books, The Hunger Games trilogy, the Dan Brown books, the True Blood series, James Patterson. So, yes…
I confess…that means I have also read the-book-that-can’t-be-named—because, HOLY COW, I couldn’t make my inner goddess behave. I know. Some of you might say reading such smut is just 50 shades of wrong, right? Two words, “Laters, baby…”
I confess…reading that trilogy jumpstarted my…(get your mind out of the gutter) interest in reading again because immediately after I finished I jumped…(really, don’t you know me better than that?) right into my car, went to Barnes and Noble, and bought 5 other books to read that had nothing to do with ties, whips, or a hackneyed plot that seemed way to similar to the Twilight novels.
I confess…around this same time, I also started reading Anna Karenina because (1) I felt like a fraud as an English teacher because I had never read it and (2) I thought a classic read might make up for my, um, less-than-literary leanings of late.
I confess…I grew weary of the prose after just a few chapters (now I know how my students must have felt when I assign Crime and Punishment).
I confess…I read the Wikipedia summary instead. Turns out, even these characters had some, um, pretty sordid personal lives, too.
I confess…I abandoned my attempts to redeem myself as a proper English teacher, mommy, and literary critic and jumped into another summer’s hit, Gone Girl.
I confess…I stayed up way past my 10 pm bedtime to read just One. More. Page.
I confess…this is one of the best books I’ve read in a while (although, I confess, I often find myself saying this exact same thing after I finish a book).
I confess...the next book I read will not have anything to do with affairs, crime, intrigue, psychopaths, or “deviant” behavior.
I confess…that last confession is probably more fiction than fact!