You can’t write well, if you won’t read. And taking care of three little critters has shrunk my reading time this week.
But, I am managing to read Agatha Christie’s autobiography – and she was a voracious reader as a child. She read the works by G.A. Henty. The third child and second daughter in a happy home, her education, during the last years of Queen Victoria, was not rigorous; she had plenty of time to read and play, and had time to create a world of imaginary companions. These gentle times hardened when her father died – but not her appetite for reading.
Reading is a gift I too often take for granted – until I watch my grandchild pick up beginner readers and plow through them, delighted with the discoveries words unlock. Watching her brother practice writing his name on every slip of paper he finds shows me the wonder writing is – lines and curves that convey meaning from one human to another. And then, the littlest grandchild can be instantly soothed (often) by the phrase, “Let’s read a book!”