It’s simple and complicated.

I hated reading as a kid, everything bored me. I know the irony of wanting to be a writer when I hated books. My mind would wander to the what ifs. I would never focus on the words in front of me, but I could see a world of possibilities.

I would pick up one of my various notebooks, some where really bad comic stripes and others were complete drafts I never did type up. I had several books as a kid, the dollar store was a blessing with the way, I went through pencils, pens and plenty of paper.

There was only one book series I loved as a kid but they were always hard to find. Secrets of Droons, about three kids who find an entrance to a secret world in their basement. When I was reading that, I was reading vintage Archie comics. My dad would make the argument just because there are pictures doesn’t mean it’s not reading. Eventually my lack of detesting of reading fizzled out when I entered six grade.

I had a horrible teacher through six-eight grade. She would demean you if you said the wrong thing. She got a sick joy out of watching her students struggle. She was not the supporting type.

I eventually did my love of reading did return. When I was in seventh grade. I feel this may have done with my seventh grade English teacher choosing exciting novels to read, except the red badge of courage, I hated that book. I did however fall in love with The Pigman.

As that year went on, I felt I was understanding more than novels.

It was book fair day and my friend convinced me to get one of the Chicken for the Soul Soup books. They were big back then, I don’t if they are still made today. I hope they are. I fell in love with poetry. It was the first time I understood literature without a struggle.

Eight grade arrived and the nastiest teacher I ever encountered was back in site, I literally would force myself to get sick, to get out of going to school. My seventh grade teacher made me feel I could be capable and understand the concept of reading and writing. Two weeks with the 8th teacher my confidence I had gained down the drain. I went from 80’s/78’s to 64s.

I was starting not to care about anything at that point, she made life miserable at this school. I stop writing for a bit, for the first time I didn’t have the desire to pick up a pen and write.

Odd to think a random birthday party, changed that. The party favors were books. My sister walked away with Teen Idol by Meg Cabot and I walked away with The V – Club by Kate Brian. Two authors who made me love reading again. It was the first time I came across characters my age who were girls who held their ground.

Should an eight grader been reading The-V Club in hindsight? Probably not. Did my parents care no, because those books lead to me wanting to go to Borders frequently. That lead to my mom ordering book lots off Ebay for me.

Freshmen year of high school. My summer reading requirement books were.

Catherine Called Birdie for History

Make Lemonade for English

Speak for English.

That’s right Speak was required reading for all freshmen in my school. Please keep in mind. I went to a Catholic All Girls high school. Speak is the fifth most banned books in the US. I will never understand how my English teacher saw this as important and required reading but parts of this country constantly ban it. Then again, my school require us to read a lot of works deem inappropriate. I’ll go into that another day.

This English teacher made us write a short story based on Starry Night. My first assignment and it was an 85. My English and art teachers were always my biggest supporters of my endeavors.

This English teacher made a difference. I went from a 65 student to second honors. Most of my high school teachers believed and supported us in our decisions. My art teacher could easily read her students, she had an incredible knack for it. She has surely inspired one of my characters.

I may have gone a tangent. The reason I write is because someone saw pass the past and allowed me to live in the moment. That’s what writing is, write? Writing the moment?

Love ya,

Cyndi Whitaker