reading & writing.

I had a driveway moment (actually, a gym parking lot moment) yesterday listening to NPR's remembrance of J.D. Salinger. The piece included readings from "A Catcher in the Rye," which were mesmerizing. I read "A Catcher in the Rye" exactly once, as required, in high school English class. I vaguely remember its angsty anti-hero, Holden Caulfield, its dark tone, its unresolved ending. After hearing the piece (and finishing my Pilates class), I dashed home to see if I still had a copy of the book ... no luck. (I'll bet that high-school copy is still on the bookshelf in my teenage bedroom.)

Salinger puts me in mind of other writers whose work I love, whose work propelled me toward the career that I'm in. Fitzgerald. Steinbeck. Wharton. White. It makes me want to pick up all those books again and re-experience the marvelous language, the turns of phrase, the ways of seeing and describing the world.

Last night, realizing I didn't have Salinger on the shelf, I grabbed the three-volume set of Junior Great Books that I have from fifth grade. (I'm delighted to see the program is still in existence.) Once a month, a group of advanced readers at Mohawk Trails Elementary gathered in a conference room during lunchtime/recess, where Mrs. Lorton led us in a discussion of a work from the Junior Great Books series. There was an excerpt from "The Wind in the Willows." Part of "A Christmas Carol." An obscure bit from Mark Twain. Writings by Heywood Broun, Chekhov, Bradbury, a few poems. I distinctly remember feeling special (and a bit nerdy) to be part of this group. It was the first time I recall having real conversations about books, not just guided classroom discussion. We didn't talk about the mechanics of the writing, but rather the meaning and our interpretations, guided by our suburban, '70s-era kid worldview.

Last night, I read Bradbury's heartbreaking short story, "All in a Summer Day" and Heywood Broun's "The Fifty-First Dragon." My 42-year-old self was as enthralled as my 10-year-old self had been. I'm planning to pick up "Gatsby" and "Catcher" and create a list of all my old favorites. It'll be my winter reading program.

As a kid, I was a voracious reader. VORACIOUS. I have a high-resolution memory of sitting in front of my kindergarten class, reading to the rest of the kids. I devoured Nancy Drew, E.B. White, Judy Blume. I'd plow through the Carmel Library's summer reading program at warp speed. I loved the library. I have deep and profound recollections of lying on the floor with my mom and brother on summer evenings after supper, reading a chapter at a time of "Charlotte's Web." My dad had perfected the voices of the characters in my favorite picture books, Dare Wright's "Little Doll" series. (He had Mr. Bear down pat.)

This love of words led me to journalism classes in high school and college and, ultimately, to my magazine career and even this blog. I can't NOT read or write. And I think that it's going to point me toward other opportunities in my life, as well.