Room to Read

“This must be Thursday,” said Arthur to himself, sinking low over his beer. “I never could get the hang of Thursdays.”

Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

I grew up in a reading household: both of my parents read regularly. My dad built bookcases in our den that still couldn’t hope to hold all the reading material we owned. My mom took me to the local library at least once a week, letting me check out all the books I could lug home. Laudable as their efforts were, this isn’t about how they inspired my reading.[*]

It’s about how sharing a room did.

The room in question was the bedroom I shared with my sister. Or, more accurately, the one she shared with me. Being several years older, it had been hers first. Granted, it remained hers in some real ways when it came to where things went and space division. I’m not sure if that’s much consolation for a teenager trading her privacy (and full-sized bed) for a much younger and much messier little sister. All things considered, she probably got the worst end of that deal.[†]

And I’m not saying that just because she’s frequently mentions the horrors of negotiating a floor strewn with doll shoes whilst trying to silently slip into bed after a night out.[‡]

But when you happen to be one of four children, sharing happens. So we did. She may have shared a bit more with me than she knew at the time. Speaking as an avid bookworm, there is nothing more irresistible than an unread book. She kept hers under her dresser. And, I most certainly borrowed them.

Being a voracious reader, I read rather indiscriminately then.[§] I quite happily absorbed myself in some sister’s not-so-age-appropriate romance novels alongside the library’s copy of Little Women. But there was one book—I don’t recall whether my sister was in high school or college at the time the new book came or exactly how old I was—but I vividly recollect the cover as it peeked out from behind dark wooden legs: a planet with its tongue sticking out. That one, that one was a revelation. A clinically depressed robot? Computers declaring the meaning of life is 42? A chap who can’t manage Thursday? It was odd and hilarious at once. I loved The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, even the bits I didn’t quite get yet. It’s one I’ve reread many times, and it was my sister who (unwittingly) placed it in my path.

As we time went by, my sister purposely lent me books, too. Often, she provided me with plot synopses so that I could decide whether they were worth reading. Of course, we don’t always agree to read the same sort of books,[**] but I’m always interested in trying her recommendations. Like that time she suggested I read this story about a kid called Harry Potter. I was a bit skeptical, since it was for kids (or so I thought). She sent me home with the first three books. And she was right: they were great. For her birthday, I bought her the next four as soon as each was published.

I suppose putting up with a kid sister eventually paid off for her.

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NOTES:

[*] Although, they absolutely did and do continue to inspire me to keep reading.

[†] Not that it was her choice.

[‡] I have it on her authority that stepping on Barbie doll shoes whilst barefoot is excruciatingly painful. It’s little wonder she made sure I became a far tidier person than I was naturally inclined to be.

[§] For the sake of my sanity, I no longer partake of breakfast cereals. To this day, I can’t seem to stop myself from rereading the boxes again and again.

[**] I still can’t talk my sister into horror fiction.

Author: Rita E. Gould: anartfulsequenceofwords

Writer. Reader. Editor. View all posts by Rita E. Gould: anartfulsequenceofwords