I became acquainted with books when I was still in my mother's womb. My mother, in her second pregnancy, decided that her cravings for ripe mangoes and squid, go well with books (as if mangoes and squid go well either). Grandma used to tell me how mom would always have a book in her hand, reading at any chance she had. I didn't know then and I could've cared less since the only worry I had really, was getting out into the world.
At five, books and I were finally formally introduced in Sunday School! I read the stories of this guy named Jesus, who turned water into wine, fed 5,000 people with fish and bread, walked on water, died on the cross and raised from the dead. Later, this guy Jesus, would have become the most influential person in my life.
Years passed, and my love for books slowly grew. I switched from reading the Sunday newspaper comics to Archie comics then science books. I was fascinated by the nine/eight planets existing in a limitless universe powered by a smoldering sun. At one point, I even dreamed of becoming the first woman astronaut to ever land on the moon. But that ambition never lasted; my curiosity of the universe shifted. I found that books took me to other interesting places faster than I could land on the moon. Sifting through my mom's and cousin's small collection of fiction, I took a shot at reading The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas and Maeve Binchy's, I think, Circle of Friends. But what do I know then? Webster gave no definition of the culture all so foreign to me and no further explanation of the English language I was still trying to learn. I was eight and read both books as far ahead as chapter two.
Then, Francine Pascal's Sweet Valley Twins landed on my lap. After it, I craved for more. It was like tasting Nutella for the first time, never letting go until the bottle's swiped clean. Our family trips since always consisted of a stop at a bookstore. Always. I could care less about toys, I'd rather have with me a Sweet Valley book, an Archie Digest and an occasional fancy notebook as my journal. Locked up in a room and lost in the world of my imagination, I'd finish a book in one sitting on a good day. By the time I stepped into high school, I have amassed a mini library of 100+ books, mostly of Archie and the Sweet Valley series, pushing my family to build an improvised book case on the ceiling of our already cramped room. The shelf made our room looked even smaller and hotter, but my treasures, they were safe.
When high school, college and my transition to Guam came, times left alone flipping through brown pages occurred less and less. I would still read, mostly non-fiction, but devoid the intensity, excitement and frequency I once had. Though I love peering through every character, every paragraph, every line, I've turned its pages out of obligation and looked at it with sheer exhaustion - half-reading, half-skimming through. The smell of books had slowly lost its lure. The sight of rows and rows of books neatly classified in Dewey became less and less appealing.
Life, happened. My priorities were different. I had to grow up. Books and I, we went on a break.
The winter of 2008 came, we had moved to Italy. Perhaps, it was that exposure again to novel literature and to a teacher, whose love for reading and learning, unyielding. Perhaps, it was Italy or Europe as a whole, responsible for rekindling that petered out light. Its quaint houses, glorious landscapes, majestic palaces, age-old museums, fascinating people, funny anecdotes, all of it created a hunger to read and know more about such, whether true or made-up. I looked at thick binds with an overwhelming sense of excitement deprived of the fatigue I chose to meddle on. Books, stacked higher, patiently wait for the unraveling of their worlds from its confined pages. I used to travel with them but, that too, has changed - I travel with them and they travel with me. I didn't quite know how or what or when it happened, it just did. It was like the father meeting his prodigal son, like a Sparks' last chapter incarnate.
Books and I, we have been reunited - never to part again, happily ever after.
Check out what or who I've been reading here.
At five, books and I were finally formally introduced in Sunday School! I read the stories of this guy named Jesus, who turned water into wine, fed 5,000 people with fish and bread, walked on water, died on the cross and raised from the dead. Later, this guy Jesus, would have become the most influential person in my life.
Years passed, and my love for books slowly grew. I switched from reading the Sunday newspaper comics to Archie comics then science books. I was fascinated by the nine/eight planets existing in a limitless universe powered by a smoldering sun. At one point, I even dreamed of becoming the first woman astronaut to ever land on the moon. But that ambition never lasted; my curiosity of the universe shifted. I found that books took me to other interesting places faster than I could land on the moon. Sifting through my mom's and cousin's small collection of fiction, I took a shot at reading The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas and Maeve Binchy's, I think, Circle of Friends. But what do I know then? Webster gave no definition of the culture all so foreign to me and no further explanation of the English language I was still trying to learn. I was eight and read both books as far ahead as chapter two.
Then, Francine Pascal's Sweet Valley Twins landed on my lap. After it, I craved for more. It was like tasting Nutella for the first time, never letting go until the bottle's swiped clean. Our family trips since always consisted of a stop at a bookstore. Always. I could care less about toys, I'd rather have with me a Sweet Valley book, an Archie Digest and an occasional fancy notebook as my journal. Locked up in a room and lost in the world of my imagination, I'd finish a book in one sitting on a good day. By the time I stepped into high school, I have amassed a mini library of 100+ books, mostly of Archie and the Sweet Valley series, pushing my family to build an improvised book case on the ceiling of our already cramped room. The shelf made our room looked even smaller and hotter, but my treasures, they were safe.
When high school, college and my transition to Guam came, times left alone flipping through brown pages occurred less and less. I would still read, mostly non-fiction, but devoid the intensity, excitement and frequency I once had. Though I love peering through every character, every paragraph, every line, I've turned its pages out of obligation and looked at it with sheer exhaustion - half-reading, half-skimming through. The smell of books had slowly lost its lure. The sight of rows and rows of books neatly classified in Dewey became less and less appealing.
Life, happened. My priorities were different. I had to grow up. Books and I, we went on a break.
The winter of 2008 came, we had moved to Italy. Perhaps, it was that exposure again to novel literature and to a teacher, whose love for reading and learning, unyielding. Perhaps, it was Italy or Europe as a whole, responsible for rekindling that petered out light. Its quaint houses, glorious landscapes, majestic palaces, age-old museums, fascinating people, funny anecdotes, all of it created a hunger to read and know more about such, whether true or made-up. I looked at thick binds with an overwhelming sense of excitement deprived of the fatigue I chose to meddle on. Books, stacked higher, patiently wait for the unraveling of their worlds from its confined pages. I used to travel with them but, that too, has changed - I travel with them and they travel with me. I didn't quite know how or what or when it happened, it just did. It was like the father meeting his prodigal son, like a Sparks' last chapter incarnate.
Books and I, we have been reunited - never to part again, happily ever after.
Check out what or who I've been reading here.
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