Posted by: Gwendolyn Huber | June 21, 2011

Why do I read?

Why do I read?

I read because I breathe. I crave stories because I am alive. As I move around the world I search for words on billboards, street signs, graffiti, writing on the wall, and keep an ear tuned to the stories we all have to tell.

In elementary school, I remember the starburst of color of light and sound, the intense flavor of the moment I understood that those Dick and Jane books were keys to other stories. In middle school, I came out of my world of daydreams only for songs and the stories they told, and for my English teacher because of the stories he told. I wish I’d learned more about the English language back then though,  than about WWII. When I left the small world of my childhood quite unprepared for much of anything, books were my teachers.

Why do I write?

I write because I want to take action and I like to think of writing as exercise, though my body insists on things more strenuous too.  I write because even as a young child I loved to create something from nothing.  I write because sometimes I feel that if I don’t tell the stories I’ve heard and lived, the rocks will have to cry out.

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