The Art of Reading

In the past couple of months, I've kinda gotten into creative non-fiction. I realize I haven't posted many pieces lately, so I thought I'd give you an example of the creative non-fiction I write. Hopefully it will also tell you something about my life. This, by the way, is the piece I used for my college essay--hey! Come back! It's interesting, I promise! Please?

The Art of Reading

“‘Nothing ahead of them now but night. Night, and great, dark North America.’” I close The Hummingbird’s Daughter and pause, letting the ending sink in for my mother. I know she will say, “Is that it?” Or, “Is that the end?” And I nod. There’s no need to say anymore.

I always ask, “So what do you think of the book?” I already know most of her thoughts. But I like talking about the story, exploring the meanings hidden within. And even after three or four years of reading to my mother, my mom still surprises me with her insights into the book.

It started at the end of 8th grade. As I floundered my way through the Holocaust memoir Night, my mother asked me to read the book to her. She wanted to understand what troubled me so badly. Dimly I remember how she asked, so cautious and careful, as if I were an animal that might fright. And I remember how difficult the task was, how I fought to keep the tears from my voice as I read. She never asked about the tears, not until afterwards. I was always grateful for that. Questions would have disrupted the story.

I do not remember why I kept reading. No, that’s a lie—I wanted to share my favorite stories from old anthologies and magazines. I read every day in the car, on the way to and from school. That brief half hour on the road became a special time set aside only for us—no one else in the family seemed particularly interested in reading aloud. Most of the early stories came from Cicada, a magazine for adolescents, and old, battered copies of Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine that my brother had brought home from the school library. Authors ranged from teenage writers like me to Kurt Vonnegut and Ursula K. Le Guin.

Reading aloud, I learned, is an art. The reader does not simply dictate to the listener; she creates worlds with her words. Each character is distinct, special; each speaks with its own voice. Mothers speak in low sopranos, ladies’ voices are high and delicate. Priests, fathers, grown men talk in a low voice—but not too deep, for the lowest voices are for the distinguished elders. The warrior speaks loudly, proud of himself; the wise woman speaks briskly, a sharp edge to her words; the child stumbles through her words, bright with excitement; and the old men and women speak softly, voices cracked and weary.

The characters take on flesh during the reading. They become friends, part of a secret community my mother and I share. We talk of them as if they were real, gossiping as if they were neighbors: “Oh, he would never do that. Oh, that is so typical of her.” Like specters they float into our conversation, an inside joke, a reference: “Remember when…?” These are friends who will never completely leave, even after the book is finished; they always remain, a step away in our imagination.