I’ve Been Reading

In kindergarten, at Edgemont Elementary School in Montclair, NJ, the kids in my class were offered the opportunity to learn how to read. Most were eager – probably 27 out of the 30 in the class.

But I saw an opportunity. Since I’d arrived in this class, I’d wanted to play with the pattern blocks. They were the most popular toy in the room; I could never get a shot at them. So while everyone else was learning to read, I built magnificent mosaics with absolute freedom.

I had no FOMO. My parents were extremely well-educated; I lived in one of the most affluent areas of the country. Reading could wait – I had shit to do.

(By comparison, my oldest was reading at age 3, and my youngest at age 3 1/2. Both parents exceedingly well-educated, living in one of the most affluent areas of the country – Park Slope, Brooklyn. For them, it wasn’t FOMO, it was pleasure. It was power.)

So I didn’t begin reading until the spring of first grade. By that time, my family had moved to a distinctly non-affluent area, Seaford, DE. I wasn’t necessarily a reluctant reader – I just had shit to do.

I remember the book where it all clicked. It was called “Up We Go,” and it had a rocket on the cover. It has long been out of print, and while I have a book guy, it just simply un-findable. Which is fine. Seaford was a desperately underfunded school district – always has been, always will be – and who even knows when the book was published or how it arrived on a first-grader’s desk.

My teacher was Mrs. McWilliams. She turned out to have all three of us Nixon kids for first grade – none of us were unscathed. At the time, in the spring of 1972, I was having horrible stomachaches. Finally, my parents took me in for X-rays to rule out any serious issues. I was not allowed to have dinner the night before, and that morning had to drink an awful kind of chalky milkshake, and lie still. Turn this way and that, according to instructions. I was good at following instructions.

When we got home, I remember being full of farts. Having not eaten, and having had that barium swallow, I was gassy as could be. My mother let me eat Cocoa Krispies for dinner – all I wanted.

And the diagnosis was anxiety. Mrs. McWilliams was stressing me the fuck out. I think my parents put it down to the upheaval of the move from Montclair to Seaford, a new kind of regional culture, differing expectations, the shift from kindergarten to “real school.”

And reading became my escape at that point. “Up We Go” was replaced by other books – there was always a book. In fourth grade, I got in trouble for reading Peanuts compilations under my desk while the teacher was talking. The fact that these books were provided for us in the classroom apparently made no impact. In eighth grade, I ducked out of gym and read Jane Eyre and We Have Always Lived in the Castle. Again, from the school library, which also helpfully provided books by Marilyn Sachs and Elizabeth Enright.

My family was also very fortunate to live backyard-kitty-corner from the local library. There, I read Judy Blume and Nancy Drew, and later V. C. Andrews and Stephen King. There was always a book.

I became an English major. I went to work in publishing and bookselling and librarianship. And now that I’m out of those worlds – now that I’m applying my library skills to other industries like advertising and insurance and financial services (don’t sniff – this is good work and I’m glad to be doing it – these are industries that NEED a librarian’s brain), there is still always a book.

Ever since I started at my latest job, nearly a year ago, I went on a Stephen King diet. The Dark Tower, related books, other books, all the books. I find that his writing helps my writing. And I am nothing if not a completist. So every day, when I either come home from work or log off from work, I spent at least an hour reading.

I look forward to it more than I look forward to dinner or TV or anything else. I’m learning about world-building, about craft, about mistakes, about character and dialogue and stereotypes and repetitiveness. (The man does love a blue chambray work shirt.)

I’ve learned these lessons before – I took 9 different creative writing courses at Mount Holyoke, and my senior thesis was a collection of short stories, and I also attended the Bennington Writing Workshop in 1985. I’ve been groomed to write fiction.

But it’s different to study a master so closely, as a writer. A prolific master, who has been through many evolutions as a writer. He’s not the spooky horror-monster of the 1980s anymore, though those books are good! But now his work is more thoughtful, more considered, and more literary.

It’s been an interesting adventure. And this habit of reading every night when I’m done with work or the commute, and writing afterwards on the days when I am home, is doing more good for me than Mrs. McWilliams could ever imagine. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’d disapprove.

Which delights me.