Is it because of or in spite of the way reading was taught to you in school, or was your schooling irrelevant to it?

What experiences do you think shaped your love of reading, and how are they different from the experiences of those who hate it?

If you were trying to instill or encourage a love of reading and literature in a young person or young people, how would you do it?

I'm not looking for parental advice here. My children are both good readers, and my older son's academic career shows an unusual proficiency in reading. I'm asking because I'm interested in the factors that have made avid readers of some and not others and what they have in common, and because I'm wondering what things can be done past early childhood to induce a love of literature in people. It's all very well to say "read to your child," but can a teenager or young adult or even an older adult be turned on to reading when the age of "The Poky Little Puppy" and "Goodnight, Moon" is past?

But as for why I made that transition...hmmm...

There is one event that I can point to that if it didn't actually cause me to become a book lover certainly encouraged my book-loving proclivities, and that was when I contracted mononucleosis in the 3rd grade. Lots of jokes are made about mono, but all I can say is that it wasn't a joke for me since I was for several weeks a pretty sick little kid, running a fever that varied from slightly elevated to downright uncomfortable. For that matter, it wasn't a joke for my parents, who had to nurse me for the nine weeks that I was out of school. Even after I returned to school, I was on limited activity for several weeks.

It was when I was stuck in the house all that time that I became not just a reader of books but a devourer of books. Would it have happened without mononucleosis? Maybe -- who can say? But it was then, when I was stuck in the house with little else to do and when I discovered for myself that television just wasn't all it was cracked up to be, that I discovered that a good book can be the best friend anybody ever had.

As for making the transition from enjoying books to enjoying literature...well, I like some literature. Not all. So is it literature that I like or just some books that happen to be literature? I suspect it's the latter.

Kathleen

First some background: My mother and dad came of age during the Great Depression, so Mother never finished high school, and Dad had only a business school education. My two older siblings went all the way through high school at British preparatory schools in South Africa because Dad’s job caused us to live there for 17 years. (I attended the same school as my brother did until I was 12, when we returned to the States.)

Neither of my siblings went to college, but both were readers, as was I. Books were mainstays in our house, and there were many of them. Dad subscribed to the Book-of-the-Month Club, and many of its selections from those days were destined to become literary classics. My older brother and sister were within two years of each other in age, so they developed very active social lives with each other’s friends. There was a large gap in age between me and them, so I was more of a loner. I was read to and learned to read by myself very early – even skipped the equivalent of second grade because of my reading level at the time. Books became my companions. I had plenty to choose from in the house, and I was never discouraged from trying a book, even if it might be deemed "too advanced" or "too adult."

More importantly, I developed very early (I’d say around the age of nine) a fascination with the power of the written word. I was not satisfied with just passively absorbing books; I wanted to write. When I read a book, I was already – at some unconscious level – studying how writers used words to produce the desired effects. I was like the budding musician marveling at the performance of a virtuoso. And, as I began to write, I also began to appreciate how difficult it was to do it well. Truly understanding how hard it is to write well inevitably increases one’s appreciation of good writing.

Given this background, it was inevitable that I would major in English in college. My appreciation of literature expanded as I came to understand how masters of the language captured ideas and experiences – clearly, intensely, movingly. In my childhood, I could be moved to tears by a story because it was sad; as an adult, I could be moved to tears by something because it was simply “so well written,” just as music can sometimes move me in ways that I cannot fully explain.

My older siblings remained “readers” all their lives and perhaps they developed a love of literature. However, they never experienced my urge to write, at least not to the degree that I did, so probably their love of literature was less intense. Nothing enhances one’s appreciation of literature more than having tried to write a good book – and failed.

One of my earliest memories is of sitting on the couch, snuggled next to my mom who was pointing out the pictures to me in a rebus version of "The Little Red Hen." My happiness knew no bounds when we went grocery shopping and I was allowed to choose a new Golden Book from the tall black spinner rack chock-full of them. I memorized each one. A bit worse for wear, they now sit in a box in my mother's attic after being shared with my siblings and their children.

My mother also claims I decoded the printed page when I was around two. Sometimes she read to me; other times I read to her. Most of the time we shared the reading. She believed a reader should be able to write well, so I helped her write grocery lists, and she made sure I carefully printed thank-you notes when I received gifts. On one trip to the grocery store, instead of choosing a Golden Book, I picked out a stop-light-red wire-bound notebook into which I printed lists of rhyming words. No wonder I was redirected to another activity when I occasionally sat on the tall kitchen step stool and recited, for instance, my "buck" and "bit" lists to her while she did supper preparation. (I'm really fast at peeling potatoes now after all the experience I got!)

The first Bobbsey Twins book came into my life when I was around eight. I can't recall any of the details, but I remember reveling in the adventures of Flossie and Freddie (the younger twins) and Nan and Bert (the older twins). For some reason, when I went off to college, my mother gave away my treasured set of slowly-acquired titles, usually given to me at birthdays and Christmas. I would kill to have that set today. Not long ago, I was crushed to learn that the Bobbsey Twins author, Laura Lee Hope, whom I had greatly admired and whose writing talents I envied, was nothing more than a pseudonym of the Stratemeyer Syndicate (Google that for some interesting reading!). Alert for crossword puzzlers: Occasionally in crosswords is the clue, "a Bobbsey twin" (three letters). Now you know.

Over the next few years, I gravitated to other series (also written by the Stratemeyer Syndicate!) such as Nancy Drew. Oh, how I wanted to grow up to be like Nancy, a sassy and bold titian-haired amateur detective who, flashlight in hand, drove her blue roadster at high speeds on gravel roads as she snooped and trespassed and detected! My younger brother had been given several Hardy Boys titles in hopes that he would sit down and read instead of finding ways to misbehave. They looked interesting, so I confiscated them from his bedroom bookshelf. He never missed them.

About this same time, I was given Johanna Spyri's Heidi (crossword alert: "author of Heidi," five letters). I learned that Heidi's grandfather and his friendly, playful goats lived in the Swiss canton of Uri (crossword alert: "Swiss canton," three letters), that goat milk is very delicious and nutritious (I begged my parents to buy goat milk fudge sold at roadside stands along the way to occasional picnics at Niagara Falls, but they never gave in), and hoped I would never have to eat the hard black bread that was in the daily diet of the rural Swiss farmers and herders. My prepubescent self wept tears of joy when Heidi overcame the influences of several selfish and hypocritical minor characters, taught the goatherd Peter how to read and write, and then, in the two sequels, married him and had his blond, rosy-cheeked babies. Of course, my pigtails never looked quite as good as Heidi's, but I'm thinking of buying a few goats that can live happily in my large, fenced-in back yard and provide me with milk for fudge for my retirement home-business.

When I was ten, I was given my own 20-volume set of Grolier's The Book of Knowledge, copyright 1952. Open a volume today and I can still smell that same delicious fragrance of glossy paper, stitching, and waiting treasures. Those volumes were read from cover to cover (although I must admit I skipped over some of the science sections). My two adult sons later used the set for school reports. The set now sits happily in a bookshelf in my living room. Maybe after I finish typing this, I will pull out a volume to inhale a bit of nostalgia.

I won't mention high school and college reading requirements and my discovering George Eliot and Shakespeare and poetry. Those experiences will pop up somewhere in future posts, I'm sure. Years later, when I had my first baby, I flew home to show off the first grandchild and to collect my childhood books such as Old Man Rabbit's Dinner Party, the 1950-something 1st edition of Better Homes and Gardens Story Book (which contains classics from Beatrix Potter's Peter Rabbit to Joel Chandler Harris' stories about Uncle Remus to excerpts from Rudyard Kipling's Elephant's Child and, scattered throughout, poetry by the likes of Wordsworth and Poe, rebuses [rebi?], and stories that taught respect for animals and people as well as stories that pushed the imagination). Reading the excerpts whetted my appetite for the originals. I still have these childhood books shelved in my bedside bookcase. Just the sight of them comforts me after a stressful day.

So, to wind this up (yes, Bradd, I really am going to), I have always been a reader. When I was just a little girl, my
Chicago grandmother introduced me to a new reading universe during our family's annual two-week vacation to visit her and my grandfather. On steamy July afternoons, she and I would lie on the white chenille bedspread that covered the big bed in her cool back bedroom and read Superman, Wonder Woman, Little Lotta/Richie Rich, and Uncle Scrooge comics. Because of that, stacks of comics always accompanied me during a car trip, whether it was seven miles to the grocery store or 1800 miles to my Idaho grandparents' home. Nowadays, I'm thrilled to be surrounded by books at work at the library and at home, nearly every hour of my life.

I have always had a love of books. I can remember as a small child, my mother always read to me. That was a central focus of my day and a major joy for me. I had more books than I had other toys. I remember wanting to read so badly. My brother was older than I was by five years. I begged him to teach me to read before I started school. He tried, bless his heart, he tried, but he didn't' know how to teach me. I began Kindergarten and was so happy because I was going to finally learn to read. I came home from school quite angry because the teacher did not teach me to read that first day of school. Eventually I did learn to read. It was easy for me. Books were my friends. The librarian and I were on a first name basis with each other. By the time I was in 4th grade I was reading on a High School senior level. They couldn't keep me in books at my elementary school. Thankfully I had a wonderful teacher that went to the public library and borrowed books for me that were more on my reading level. I read Pride and Prejudice and Gone with the Wind for the first time in 4th or 5th grade. Math, well that was a different story. Numbers made no sense to me what-so-ever.

I read your profile and agree with you completely that people are becoming more and more illiterate. I am a teacher as well. My chosen field is Deaf Education. The children I teach are 3, 4 and 5 years of age. The problem that I encounter the most with these children is lack of language all together. When they enter my classroom at three yeas of age we have to start with the very basics of language and eventually work into being able to put words together with manual communication, oral language or both. Instilling in these children a love of literature and the printed word is extremely difficult. For most people with a hearing impairment, reading is a very difficult task. However, I want my students to love books and all that books have to offer. We do daily activities with books. We read them, we study them, we act out the stories, we study the characters, we rewrite pieces of the stories. I still feel like I have hit a roadblock with these children because by 2nd or 3rd grade, when children begin reading to learn instead of learning to read, they abandon books. With cochlear implants becoming increasingly popular, I have hope that this trend will decline. The students are able to hear more sounds and language levels are increasing. I'm holding out hope that these children will still learn to love books.

I don't remember my parents reading to me. My mother does not like to read and, in fact, considers it a waste of time for an adult. My father used to read lots of nonfiction, but I don't think he ever read novels.

When I was very young, a salesman talked them into buying a set of books for children. I got hooked on them.

I remember there was one book of poetry and a book of fairy tales. We traveled very little, so I loved strange places and adventures. I don't think I realized it then, but I also loved the sound and the rhythm of the words. I spent hours in my upstairs bedroom (where no one could hear me) reading aloud. Even now, I tell my students to read their essays aloud and listen for the changes they should make.

I have little recollection of being read to (although I'm sure I was as all children are) or any emphasis being placed on reading. Both parents were graduates of superior colleges, in the case of my mother unusual for a woman in those days, so for me a love of reading may be simply genetic.

I DO recall being curious about everything and my parents frequently giving me presents of books or magazines which I always loved. I have no memory of my father reading anything but the newspaper and my mother reading only Agatha Christie and that sort of book. This surprises me as I look back now and try to imagine what their intellectual life would have been as they grew up and before I was born.

My one sibling, an older girl and also a well-educated college type, seemed to have restricted her reading to the occasional crime novel and the NY Times Sunday Magazine where she was most interested in the fashion ads.

Reading, as a child, took a distant second place to sports which, if I could be considered to have been obsessive about anything, it was the daily routine of playing at athletics. (We would shovel the snow off the basketball courts on Christmas Day - in our suits).

I think smart kids read, period. It's something they almost have no choice about. A good environment certainly helps, but, like art, reading will out.

[EDIT]

I just re-read the question. Reading vs. literature. Sorry. One way to define literature is that it is about the great themes. Surely, reading helps to examine these. But does reading CAUSE the interest, or is reading the method to get at the crux of the matter. Clearly, reading is a means to the end. Anyone, reader or non-reader, can experience love, hate, trials and tribulations, war; and yet have not read a single word. Reading, then, becomes a sharing of common experiences, and that may be its prime glory.

When I read a classic piece of literature by a long-dead author, I feel like I am having a conversation with the author. Truly a marvelous thing.

CeeBee, a question:

>the 1950-something 1st edition of Better Homes and Gardens Story Book (which contains classics from Beatrix Potter's Peter Rabbit to Joel Chandler Harris' stories about Uncle Remus to excerpts from Rudyard Kipling's Elephant's Child and, scattered throughout, poetry by the likes of Wordsworth and Poe, rebuses [rebi?], and stories that taught respect for animals and people as well as stories that pushed the imagination). Reading the excerpts whetted my appetite for the originals.

However, where that sort of mind exists, the provision of means and environment for its realization and development is extremely important, beginning early as possible. Reading is not the only means of learning, but one of the most available and far reaching. Some of us, like CeeBee and Rachel P and I, are lucky to have had parents read to us when we were small, as well as teach by example in being readers themselves. What is inherited is thus nurtured.

I come from an economically depressed background (poor as ‘possums is what we were), but my mother, and even more so her mother, were readers. My father and an uncle had eighth-grade, one-room school educations, but they were readers. While their overall situations dictated they be no more than laborers all their lives, they could, in the areas of spelling, grammar, and general knowledge, put to shame most of the present-day high school and college graduates I have known. I remember my uncle's formula for keeping in shape that way: "I read every book in the school bookcase. Now I read everything that gets in front of me—-papers, books, signs, cereal boxes, whatever."

Both their father and their grandmother, with even less schooling, kept diaries. In those are many indications that, in spite of a very difficult existence, they liked reading. Books were not very easy to come by, but they managed to obtain them (as did Abe Lincoln). Many others in their world did not have such interest. Again, it seems hereditary.

I was fortunate in having a little time and a public library between school and the point where I boarded the bus for the long ride home each day, so I read a lot on the bus. I guess my schoolteachers were capable, but many classmates under those same teachers were never moved in 12 years toward things literary or artistic, which indicates we were simply different.

Being alone develops the mind that is aware. Kathleen was stuck in the house during a long period of sickness. The Mudge says circumstances made him somewhat of a loner. "Carbine" Williams invented iwith his mind alone the semiautomatic weapon that became the U.S. Carbine, Cal. 30, M1 during long periods of solitary confinement. When I was not in school, I had hundreds of acres of woodland and field around me, the nearest boy my age living a mile away and no girls at all. No television. Nothing mechanical. Without distractions, I learned early on to see and hear and comprehend wondrous things of this Earth that most people never will, even if presented with the opportunity. My objective learning by observation and discovery led to more subjective learning by reading. Reading led to more observations and questions. It was a dynamic, self-sustaining process. It led to things such as finding, because of experience in observation, a particular flint projectile point and knowing, because of reading, that I was the first one to see and hold it since its Paleo owner lost it 10,000 years ago. I can imagine no entertainment that can compare with that.

I have seriously considered offering to help teach high school students of the right attitude how to observe and learn in my own woodland. The rules would be “no cell phones, no other electronics, no pets, not even gerbil bottles. Customary play clothes may be worn in preference to proper wear, however. Wading through nettles and brambles and chiggers that way is effective education.” What I am saying here, with tongue in cheek, is that the willing and able young person must be taught how to remove himself from the noise and distraction and herd programming, giving his mind a chance to work and experience independently and actively, to become aware. By my own experience, I believe that will lead to a more open and inquiring mentality that will want to read, and a person who is an individual.

I have gone on quite long enough. You like reading? An excellent elaboration on what I have tried to express, and much more, can be found in "Legacy," by Eric Sloane (also a self-proclaimed curmudgeon, Mudge). Funk & Wagnalls-Thomas Y. Crowell, 1979, ISBN 0-308-10351-3.

Would you mind if I copy your last thread for my sister-in-law? She and her husband own forty acres that cannot be reached by car. They have to park their car and walk about 30 minutes to get to it. A couple of times a month they spend all day tramping around it. They like to find arrowheads and snake skins, but most of the time they just find live snakes.

Of course you can copy to them. Imprimatur.

I have only added a few words to my posts, because I am really afraid of running off, since I have just finished a 400-page, 101-plate book, and haven't calmed down yet. That took a lot of research and reading and thinking over the last 25 years. That much research and reading and thinking tends to make one want to communicate. Your note has already given me the courage to reply to SapphireMoon's other thread about stories you can't forget.

Certainly, you can do whatever you believe to be of some benefit with the post.

I didn't have a library card until I was in seventh grade; the library allowed me into the children's room only and had one three-foot section of "young adult." Mother allowed me to borrow no more than four books at a time, and took me to the library only every two weeks. But then, Mother was not a reader! Everyone else in the family read books, lots. When I was in third grade, I read a book or two that my older sister had borrowed from the high school library, and liked a couple enough that when I got to high school, I searched them out.