My Story - Snowball the Pony
“What did you do in the holidays?”
It’s the question everyone asks as the dreaded first day of school comes around.
My answer: “I read lots of books, and I…”
Some people take it in stride.
“Oh, what books did you read?”
Some people ignore it.
“Well, this is what I did…”
Some people give me ‘the look’.
“Nerd.”
Of course, I did do more exciting things in the holidays, but being able to read a whole book in one sitting is always a delight.
Yes, I probably am a nerd, but I have loved reading my whole life. My parents clearly remember the day I read a chapter book for the first time myself. I was quiet for hours, and they were thinking ‘this is wonderful!’
The first chapter book I read was Snowball the Pony by Enid Blyton. I was obsessed with Enid Blyton’s books for years. The Famous Five, The Secret Seven, The Adventure Series, The Secret Series. I read them ad nauseum. As well as The Chronicles of Narnia, The Adventures of Lily Lapp and Grandma’s Attic.
Confession: sometimes I still read these books. For sentimental reasons.
When I was in my pre-teen years, I shied away from reading a little bit. Writing, too. I shredded pages upon pages of my writing because I thought it was embarrassing. My biggest regret. I remember saying to someone who actually asked me about reading, “I don’t like reading anymore.”
When I was 13, I finally turned back around to my childhood love. I was struggling with a lot of things, and one day I picked up a story that I hadn’t shredded and reread it.
It was terribly written and terribly plagiarised, but I found my love for writing and reading again. I picked up my pen, and wrote an ending to the unfinished story. I haven’t stopped since.
As we grow older, especially in our teenage years, I’ve noticed that we laugh at the ‘silly’ things we did in our childhood, and mock our immaturity. We move on and forget how all of those silly and immature things shaped us into the person we are.
I am not saying we should keep on reading the story of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. But we shouldn’t be embarrassed by it. And maybe reading the lines ‘Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy’ every now and then wouldn’t hurt.
