There were, apparently, only six books in Jeanette Winterson’s house, growing up. And she managed to become one of the world’s greatest writers, anyway. (So says I.)
I can’t decide whether that’s comforting or not. I had more than six books, sure, but at least a hundred of them were Babysitters’ Club novels. I never had to be secretive about what I read; my parents exercised no degree of control over it whatsoever. Sweet Valley High was also a dominant theme of my reading long into high school.
You know, people worry a lot about what other people read. Probably too much. Perhaps I would have been better off reading the Bible, maybe Winterson’s constraints weren’t that bad, but I was not the kind of self-consciously literary child who would have chosen that on her own. I’d just read whatever I could get my hands on. And then I’d read it again. I do not wish to count all the times I read V.C. Andrews’ novels.
But the first time I read a really literary book – Margaret Laurence’s The Diviners – I loved it anyway.
Junk food is terrible for you, we can all agree on that. But after you devour that whole bag of Cheetos, an apple tastes even better. At least, that’s my experience. Your mileage may vary.
