I want to tell you something that I am ashamed of.
And it’s shockingly NOT the fact that I have more than once opened
an operational oven half way to a fully-cooked pan of brownies, to scoop off a
bit of half-baked batter for myself.
Nope, it’s not that.
As a child I was a bottomless pit reader. Gifted with books
as rewards for good grades or good deeds, my world was the size of the circle
of illumination provided by an Itty Bitty Book Light. In high-school I found
myself disappointed by so many classics, and completely changed by others. The
Great Gatsby I could take or leave as a costume drama about rich people. But The
Catcher In The Rye made my human heart sizzle away in a million exploding
pieces like Pop Rocks. Made me feel and
hurt. Made me not alone.
But this is not what I am ashamed of. I have made it this far in my life, the
product of an activist family and a liberal arts education, without reading
HOWL.
