I am ashamed.
Of course I didn’t compare myself to other blogs, and of course I wouldn’t be so competitive as to put in Bernita Harris’s great blog and discover her readability level is High School. (If you haven’t been to her blog, please check it out. It’s the first one I read every morning.)
Magical Musings (Junior High School), another wonderful blog about writing and inspiration peppered with reviews and interviews, is featuring a guest blog on critique groups and critiquing from Erica Orloff (Elementary School) today, whose blog is my very favorite when it comes to craft.
(Guess I shouldn’t be so depressed about my Elementary School rating, as most of my favorite blogs are rated at that level.)
Since I brought up Readability Levels, I’d be remiss not to mention to all you freelancers out there OleanderSolutions, whose Readability Studio 2007 not only lists the readability statistics for umteen different readability tests, but actually explains why and highlights the difficult words and sentences. And not just for freelancers--YA and children’s authors might find it helpful, too.
And this week I finished Agnes Grey by Anne Bronte, who is not nearly as talented as her sister, Charlotte Bronte, whose Jane Eyre I’ve just started. And I’ve been reading bits and pieces of Dickens, trying to figure out which book I will choose to enjoy and study.
What’s curious to me is that these books were not only shelved in the children’s section of my library--not the young adult section or the junior section, but the children’s section--but I read them as a child. We all did.
Now it’s like I’m learning to read all over again. How is it that I understood these books so well as a child? How is it that I read the plethora of words without batting an eyelash? How is it that I could bear their slower pace, their long paragraphs, their even longer sentences? And the semicolons! I love the semicolon, but we’re talking hundreds on a page!!!
I’ve grown dumber.
I have a feeling I’m going to not write for another week. I want to read A Widow for One Year one more time. I want to finish Jane Eyre and read a Dickens. And then I want to read Jane Eyre again, and I’m dying to see if Wuthering Heights is still my friend..
This thirst for these books is startling and strange to me, but it’s like something in the universe is telling me it’s vitally important for me to read them. I’ve never been one to feel like the universe guides me, but in this case, something in me is really quite insistent that I must read these books, that there is something really important I’m supposed to learn from them.
Or maybe I just miss something in my childhood. Maybe climbing a tree and spending hours reading? Or huddling up to the register, with a blanket draped around me, so the hot air from the register filled the blanket like a balloon while I read for hours? Or maybe it’s just another manifestation of the ticking clock.
Or maybe I’m just curious to see the novel in its old form. The novel today is almost an entirely different form, in comparison.
And I can see why there are writers who don’t write. The part of imagining and making up a story before you actually put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) is FUN!
What are you reading right now? What was/were your favorite book/s from childhood?