This is from a set of memoir stories I wrote during NaNoWriMo in 2024.

For years, I couldn’t read. I don’t mean that I didn’t have the ability to read words. I mean I could not read over 20 words strung together before falling asleep.

At the age when we were building our vocabularies via reading, Linda, Tammy and Theresa were reading teen romance novels. Now, before you puke (or smile with reminiscence), I only followed suit because that’s just what I did. As a loyal follower of the Cult of Linda, what she read, I read. And apparently I flew under the radar enough that the teachers never noticed this and encouraged me to find my genre.

Novel after novel would show up in their hands, waiting for their voracious eyes to soak in the words. And I would take their sloppy seconds.

Theresa had just finished inhaling P.S. I Love You and it came to me next. It was the funnest title of all these books that we read. Or that they read and I tried to read. And I was excited about starting it.

Home it went with me, stacked on my math and history books, and on the bus. I had planned to read it on the way home, but there was too much activity happening that was worth paying attention to at the back of the bus. The big kids were playing freeze-out, so we joined in. We got in trouble, but only with Mrs. Gray’s bobble-headed, high-pitched squeal of a sad admonishment.

When it was finally Linda’s turn off the bus, I looked for my books under the seat. My stop was after hers.

As was par, my books had slid back and forth under many seats and so needed collecting. I worked my flight attendant skills as I went from seat to seat to find and recover them. Math book – found. Corresponding folder – found. History book – took a while longer to find, but it was with its folder friend. And we were coming to a stop at my house.

My little brother was exiting the bus, so I shuffled quickly to the front to not get the passive aggressive closed door treatment that Mrs. Gray would give anyone slow on exiting. The bus wasn’t 20 feet down the street before I realized I’d left P.S. I Love You on the bus!

If this was today, I’d have gone home, googled it and been able to read at least the first few pages with the Amazon.com “Look Inside” feature. But this wasn’t today. And computers were things that filled a room five times the size of my house. And even if it had my book on it, it could only hold half of the book.

So there I was, moping down the driveway toward the house. Kicking myself for not retrieving the novel from the bus floor. How was it I could find math and history books, but leave the most valuable book behind? I glared at the textbooks in my arms. Had it not been for them running all over the floor of the bus, and probably kicking my novel around while they did it, I would have that lovely piece of prose to read tonight. I fumed right past the door until I hit the TV.

“Good Times” was on, and that was good enough to take my mind off my lost book. Unfortunately, “Electric Company” was next, which I wasn’t the biggest fan of, but some of the non-plot-lines held my interest to help me escape my pain.

Then it was homework, dinner and bath, which I had to cram in so quickly that I didn’t have time to be angered at the textbooks again. And with the apple and milk mom brought to my room, and her gentle pre-sleep conversation, I was ready to put it all behind me and start over in the morning.

My vivid, lucid dreams that night involved the missing novel. In one scene, I arrived on the bus only to discover Mrs. Gray had cleaned it stem to stern, removing everything, including my book. When asked about it, she merely said that everything went into the trash.

In another segment of my nightly entertainment, I got on the bus, right after Linda, to find her hunched, knees against the seat in front of her, three quarters through the book. She refused to give it up and said that she was going to read it twice more before considering sharing it with me.

I woke and shared my nightmares with Mom – to which she responded by telling me I was just reminding myself today to not forget it. It was Friday, and to forget it once more meant a whole weekend of this agony.

Breakfast was the abomination of Rice Krispies Treats we called “pinch” – 86 the Rice Krispies and substitute bran flakes, corn flakes and Total cereal. It was an abomination, but it was good (we still make it today – not for our kids – too much sugar – but for ourselves). I ate a couple of handfuls and took a swig from one of the community milk glasses, and headed out the door.

I saw the bus stop at Linda’s house, so I hustled it down the driveway, Little Brother yelling from the bus stop to hurry. He still hadn’t gotten the timing down on the bus and the walk.

I entered the bus with my fingers crossed. I tried to play it cool, so I walked down to Linda’s seat and sat. We greeted each other as I put my math and history books on the floor. I casually and stealthily bent a little farther over to see down the length of the bus. I spotted it! I wouldn’t have been better had I seen a brick of gold bullion. I got up quickly, but with casual ease, and rocked my way toward the back of the bus where it was.

Our stops were close to the start of the route, so there were few, if any, kids back there. I leaned over and picked it up.

When I got back to our shared seat, Linda noticed the book. “Did you finish it?”

I so wished I didn’t have to actually say this, “No, I forgot it last night on the bus.”

But I got lucky. She only commiserated with me.

She was already reading a different novel than the one I saw her with yesterday, and since the bus ride to school is infinitely less interesting that the bus ride home, we both scootched down in the seat, knees on the seat in front of us and commenced reading.

I was three pages into the book when I began fading. The story held my interest longer than most books – usually it was a page in when I started falling asleep. But I held the book on my knees and closed my eyes for a few minutes. The rocking of the bus continued to lull me to sleep and by the time we were at school, I was no further along.

We rotated through the first handful of classes before lunch with no time for reading – but enough time to pass notes, of course.

We sat down with our trays to enjoy lunch when the conversation turned to the rotation of novels between us. I admitted I was on page 3 when Tammy said, “I’m ready to read that one – can I take it home tonight and I’ll bring it back to you in the morning?”

This was the typical refrain. It was annoying at first. But after a while it became depressing. I wanted to read fast. Or at least faster than one page a night. But it didn’t seem to be in the cards.

But then the genre of our group turned to the creepy – V. C. Andrews. I had already mostly given up the idea that I was actually going to read books, but when the lunchtime accidental reading group began reviewing and discussing Flowers in the Attic, I was intrigued. There was less of the mushy teen romance and more of the weird and obscure bloodletting and incest.

Once that novel had made the rounds, and there was no danger that I would get the borrow-for-one-night treatment, I requested it. Amazingly, I read 20 pages or so each night before fading. And some nights I stayed up for hours reading it.

I finished it in two weeks and was ready for another. My Sweet Audrina was the next one we had from that author, although they were intermingling them with random romances. I picked up Audrina and read it as diligently as Flowers.

Over the next many years, I read another three or four novels. Almost none of which were purely for pleasure.

Fast forward a few years to 1990 when I was working at IDM Controls. My friend and unofficial “big sister,” Debbie, was reading The Stand by Steven King. I noticed how large the book was. “It is SO good,” she opined. “This is the second time I’ve read it. If you want to borrow it, you can after I’m done.”

I explained to her that I don’t read novels.

“He also has short stories – I have a book of those if you want to borrow that,” she offered.

Now short stories I can do. The concise way an author will introduce, engage, explain and conclude a tale in a short story has always amazed me. I had even taken to writing some short stories myself.

I gladly accepted her offer and looked forward to this new author.

The next day, as promised, she brought me the Different Seasons anthology. I took it home, wondering how I was going to find it.

I finished half of it that night.

The next day I went to her, “I’ll try reading The Stand when you’re done,” I bravely said. I was so excited. Apparently I was a reader – I just hadn’t found my preferred genre.