I cry easily. It happens when I read certain books, watch particular movies, and see others in emotional pain. Cry in front of me, and I will cry, too. Even when I am lost in my thoughts, the sadder, darker ones will cause me to visibly tear up. On occasion, people have caught me red-eyed and sniffling after such solo sessions. And I am not ashamed to admit any of this.
I did it just now, alone in my car, beneath a solid gray sky, surrounded by wet asphalt. On Thursdays, my youngest daughter's ballet class runs nearly three hours. Having nowhere to go, I try filling it with reading, phone calls, and podcasts. Tonight, I chose the first of this list.
I want to blame the weather. Something about dreary fall days invites escapes into other worlds. Snow-filled evenings, too. And, for some reason, sun-drenched, air-conditioned beach houses and hotel rooms. What can I say, I am a complicated person. Yet, tonight's rainy dusk was not enough to inspire my reading marathon. A long list of unwatched YouTube videos called out to me. My Google newsfeed, with its rotating array of new articles, beckoned me. And after a long, physically exhausting week, daydreaming greeted me, like a dear old friend.
I passed on all those things, despite how easy it would have been to have embraced any one of them. Instead, as my daughter walked across the parking lot, and disappeared into her dance studio, I made a resolution. It was strong. Quick. And Binding.
I would read my most recent selection from the library.
Having just enjoyed John Green's Looking for Alaska, I sought more works of fiction. Earlier this year, I had walked in on my two daughters watching the film adaptation. They were bawling. So, I sat with them, and did not get up until it was over. By the end, my children and I had piles of crumpled up wet tissues gathered about us. A week ago, my eldest mentioned the book, how it inspired her, and how I needed to read it. Using my library app, I put it on hold, and collected it a few days ago.
Tonight, grabbing the book from the back, I settled into the driver's seat, took one last look at the lightly falling rain, and dove headfirst into A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness. Two-and-a-half hours later, I finally looked up. Tears rolling down my cheeks, snot dripping from my nose, I grabbed the crumpled up napkin that had been sitting in the car for God knows how long. Don't ask me what it had been used for prior. Don't know. Don't care. It was dry. That is all I remember. But it was not enough. Desperate to clean my face and clear out my nose, I ventured from my car into the studio. It did not matter if anyone saw me. And if someone had asked why I was crying, I would have answered proudly, "a book". In the end, I made it there and back again without running into a single soul.
It all felt so good. The book. The story within. The act of reading. The sobbing. But, above all, the decision itself.
For me, reading was a habit fostered in childhood, and bolstered freshman year of high school, but put aside too many times throughout college, well into early adulthood. Only in middle age have I returned to it vigorously and deliberately. Habits form under constant practice. They are also strengthened when applied under stress. In other words, choosing a desired habit--like reading fiction--when confronted by easier choices--like wasting time online or daydreaming--reinforces the better habit.
That desire to read more books, coupled with the right environment (like I said, nothing like a dreary day...), motivated me to drag out A Monster Calls and devour it non stop.
Oh, and my contempt for Colleen Hoover's writing.
That may have played a part.
But that is a story for another day.
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