I've always been a story addict. Loved fantasy when I was a kid. They're not always books. There's drama on radio, when I was little and I was looking over my kid brother while Mama worked in the kitchen--about twin brothers born with wings, the evil one looked like an angel while the good one looked like a demon, and people who judged what they see (which is kind of real worldly), and good triumphing over evil. When I close my eyes, I could almost feel the wind on my face as the good character described the feeling of soaring in the sky. And of course there's the beautiful mermaid who fell in love with a handsome human in one of those comics (komiks) we hide under the bed because Papa didn't want us to read them for fear of what we kids would see which would be very awkward to explain--if they would bother at all. They're not part of the generation of parent-children bonding, I'm afraid.
I've always felt that stories belonged to this other world separated from the real world not by physical boundaries but by walls created by the mind. There you can rest, if that is what you want to do. There you can dream, stretch your creative muscles. There you can soar with the wings of a dove or an eagle. Whatever landscape you
make of that world, it will follow you. You can scare the hell out of yourself even and no one will mind you. During schooling, I discovered my librarian/teacher aunt's library in her house, and I started reading books I find there. That's where I was introduced to The Hobbit. By that time, I was devouring stories I found in the Bible. Epics, really. Glorious and romantic... though as a kid who cannot mask the truth of their thoughts, I wondered how God could be so cruel and prophets make stupid mistakes. There also was this giant typewriter that sadly got ruined when their house perished on fire. I also discovered that our library in my high school also carried non-boring books, and I went through Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys. I discovered My Sweet Valentine pocketbooks outside of school, of course, and Helen Meriz, Maia Jose and Maria Elena Cruz were my favorites. There were Robert Ludlum, Kathleen Woodiwiss, Anne Rice, Stephen King, Michael Chrichton among the mix as I transitioned to college. By that time, my notebooks were littered with my "notes". Either they were written love stories, or in comics. Those notes got me through Chemistry Class. These books made me so ignorant of reality and real boys, really, that by the time I was nineteen, I was married and with my first baby. But that's another story. Stupid, really. And a whole lot of feelings over it. So that's another story I may never be willing to tell.
Anyway, I still love books, even now that I have written numerous novels (short stories of 25,000 words) and have had my share of tribulation and angst of the life of a published writer in my little pot of the world. Loving books is my saving grace when writing stories drain me out. I could never be grateful enough for audio books, because when I get old and my eyesight fail I will still be able to enjoy my favorite companions. That is a big comfort. There was a time when books gave me an alternate universe to run to when reality did not make sense to me at all. Why do adults do the things they do and then say something else? Why do they treat kids like they never learn anything from what they see, and then get surprised with what come out of the little devils' mouths? Why is love wrought with so many meanings that do not mesh with what I see before me? Why are boys so stupid? Why are girls so stupid? What is life? What is commitment, REALLY? What is the difference between a literary hero and a real hero? When will the time come that I will truly believe they exist? What is my purpose on Earth? What can I give to society that will make me worthy to be called a member of the community? Will I reach old age? How? Questions, questions. Questions I used to run away from. Now that I'm older, books--stories--explain this to me. They make sense of what do not make sense. Because reality is something that truly does not make sense at all. The French Revolution did not make sense. The Holocaust did not make sense. The Japanese Occupancy did not make sense. But years later, books explain them and we understand a little. I hope enough to not make them happen again.
And still more, books make life truly simple if you will let it. A. N. Raquelaure (Anne Rice) made me feel, after her trilogy about Sleeping Beauty's sex slave experiences, that I can go through life blissfully--it'll never be as hard as when Sleeping Beauty went through in her worst reality! And God, how hard my life is! Harry Potter strengthened my principles. Vampire Academy made me realize it is okay to always show a brave face--and throw one dirty word or two against adversaries ESPECIALLY because they deserve it. I also found my literary hero in Richelle Mead's other series, Georgina Kincaid. I mean, who wouldn't fall for sweet Seth Mortensen? And Anne Bishop... oh, her exotic Black Jewels Series... hypnotic, mesmerizing... and though my favorite is witch queen Jaennelle Angeline, I hope to have assassin Surreal's spine. A New Heaven and New Earth introduced me to my ego--and gave me the perverse satisfaction that not all of my past stupid deeds were MY fault, nyehe. The Bible introduced me to the Goddess of Wisdom later in life, when I finally learned where to look and what editing mistakes to see. I mean, I was like a blind person. She was there all along! And reason why my twins both have Sofias linked to their names. And like at this minute, Fifty Shades of Grey proved to me that curiosity does not kill all cats. (Though I still have to find out why Christian Grey became Christian Grey. I'm in the middle of the first book. Hell, yes, there's porn in there, but that's not the story. I am still hunting for the story.) There is something in there. It's not all porn, really. It is okay to read it. On the other hand, I have read A. N. Roquelaure so how could it faze me? I guess it is about different perspectives, after all.
But I'm digressing. I love reading--I cannot say it enough. It gives me so much more than the time I invest in it. It happens that in this day and age--yes, post-Harry Potter days--some people does not still understand this obsession we nerds have. The keyword is "some". Me being quirky like this, is certainly not just one story in the world. We are hundreds, thousands, millions. And we have long since invaded your world in our quiet--well, sometimes noisy, unobtrusive, harmless way. Just as war should be. Our way.
