Read the Written

       Sometimes, I wonder why I chose to study literature. I wonder: do I love literature because I dedicated a substantial amount of time studying it, or did I study literature because I love it? And even though I can't fully answer that question, I think perhaps it is both. I adore reading. I adore poetry: sonnets (Shakespearean or Patrarchan), haikus, epics, free verse, ballads, prose, pastoral, and many others. I love books: sci-fi, biographies, romance, young adult, classics, utopian, dystopian, fantasy, and many others. I love novellas, opinion articles, blogs, facebook statuses, plays, monologues, dialogues, and many others. In other words...I love the written word.

       Obviously, I am not someone who just craves one medium of writing, I crave it all. But why? Because there is nothing more intimate than connecting with someone through the immortalizing of themselves. To sit on the back porch and connect with Sylvia Plath or Orson Scott Card or Alfred Tennyson people that span hundreds of years is truly a divine moment of intimacy. It is a time where we weave ourselves into a story creating a moving picture that brings us to the forefront of the intergalactic war or the lover's sex scene or the blessing of the holy innocent on their day of atonement. And this creates a living, breathing thread that binds humanity to itself.

       I could sit here and say that I would give anything to have a part in that thread, the one that guides people to understand a bit more of the human plight. And perhaps one day I will. Perhaps one day I will find within myself the ability to step out and write and give back what countless authors have given me: unfailing hope. Some of my favorite stories are those that give strong themes towards a conquering world. I desire the stories that take the darkness of evil and give it wings to soar and setting out to destroy all that is good and sacred in the world, but...that store within the bowls of its world a glimmer of perfect light--of perfect hope.

       I have hard time understanding people who don't read. I met a kindred spirit this past weekend that doesn't read. I think my jaw dropped, and as I tried to roll up my tongue and place it back in my mouth gently, I berated her (in a loving manner) for not participating in the most basic and inspiring act one can do: read. I suppose it isn't for everyone. I guess, but I just can't quite understand it. I remember taking my hands, placing them on her shoulders and subtly shaking her in a friendly manner telling her, "Read, damn it!" 

       Ender Wiggin, Harry Potter, Captain Ahab, Edmond Dantes, Billy Pilgrim, Morpheus, Anne Shirley, Katherine Hilbery, Emily Webb, Ramona Quimby, and Hester Prynne are all such grand influences not only on me but also on the world. And at any moment I can decide that I want to go on a revenge plot with Dantes, or a dream run with Morpheus, or a writer's emotional binge with Shirley, or a meta journey with Webb, and in there lies the beauty of the written word. Often times I feel privileged that I love to read. I am honored that I have the ability. I am thankful that I have the resources. 

       I do speak of this so passionately, because as of late I miss reading. I haven't for awhile, and I dearly miss it. I must get back into the one thing that can always keep me company and never let me down: the written word. And as for the delightful friend I met this weekend, "READ, DAMN IT." ;-)