I don’t remember the first book, and why would I? There have been books since I was born.

My mother loved to read, and she passed that love to me. She read to us as children, during the day, and at bedtimes. We went to the library regularly, often with my dad. It was only as an adult that I realized how wonderful a thing it is to have an occasional child-free Saturday morning, for all that you love them.

I miss the summer reading programs I participated in as a child – we don’t get nearly enough participation rewards as adults. And I don’t think we outgrow our need for props.

Forbidden books.

Our reading was never particularly curated. My family is not big with censorship. We like ideas. We like information and input. I remember having conservations with my parents over my fiction choices, but these mostly related to concerns that the adult content in the books I was choosing was perhaps too much for my young age.

They were concerned about the descriptions of sexual relationships between adults – nothing over the top, but more detailed than one finds in Sweet Valley High – and in hindsight, we should’ve talked about the sex stuff more – but I remember them being particularly concerned regarding a book I’d shared with my mother about the cancer diagnosis and subsequent death of a young woman. It had all the good stuff – language, sex, drugs, violence, and death. Hard content for an eleven-year-old, so we talked about it. And we talked about staying in the juvenile fiction section more often. But they didn’t restrict what I consumed. They didn’t forbid anything.

They should perhaps have paid more attention to the non-fiction books I was reading. They didn’t pay them much mind at all, and that’s true of most people. Those who are big with censorship direct much of their efforts at fiction and the ideas therein, at least in the early days of repression.

If my parents or the librarians had paid more attention to the non-fiction books and magazines I was consuming, they might have noticed my growing obsession with thin, pretty, and perfect. Or not – people weren’t paying as much attention to eating disorder signs in the nineteen-eighties, and I was already good at prevaricating and dissembling.

Favourite genres

I’m not a person that has singular favourites. I can become obsessively focused on a particular topic or subject such as politics, or books by Nora Roberts, but that’s a feature of my neurodivergence, and it’s more about compulsion than it is about favourites. It’s about not being able to let go of an idea or thought. It’s not about only eating burgers from McDonald’s.

As favourites aren’t my thing, it has always been easier to say what I don’t like within a category, especially when looking at categories as vastly diverse as music and literature. It’s easier to identify the things I prefer to avoid than to select a singularity from a sea of near-infinite options as my most-est favourite example of X in the whole world. Besides, preferences change over time, and with exposure to different inputs. It’s a mistake to commit to the “one true way” most of the time.

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When I was a young child, I disliked country music intensely. Partly because I was exposed to very little of it, and partly because hating on country music was the thing you did in my circle. My parents didn’t listen to it- they didn’t really play music in the house – and the little I experienced elsewhere was of the very traditional type – I tend to find that style of music a little thin. However, once I was a teenager with a radio of my own and the ability to change the station to a song I preferred, I found that I enjoyed some country music and some country music artists very much indeed. It turns out that labelling music as “country” is not terribly descriptive.

The same is true of literary genres. Once upon a time, I told everyone I hated horror. It was not an informed opinion, it was instead based on a single read. What I disliked was the example I’d consumed. I judged the entire category based on my enjoyment of Steven King’s Christine, and since I disliked it, I rejected them all. But with greater exposure, I’ve come around. Clive Barker turned the tale, in case you’re curious.

Categories – be it book, music, or bathing suits – are big spaces with a lot of variety. It’s a bad idea to eliminate entire groups of things – unless we’re talking nuclear weapons. Or margarine. I’m not a fan of either.

Lately, Ian Rob White has been my horror choice though he’s not for the squeamish. He’s a very descriptive writer. He brings his worlds to life. I found it boring when Thomas Hardy did it for pages with descriptions of the English countryside, but this is faster paced.

I used to blame my dislike of horror on being squeamish, but that’s one of those lies I tell myself like I don’t like speaking in public, or I’m shy. My affection for dissection in biology classes should’ve been a big clue. I’m not actually moved to revulsion all that easily. I am moved to pity, and sometimes, I conflate them. What I dislike in the horror field is gratuitous violence. What I dislike is pointless gore. That latter disaffection is why I mostly avoid slashers. Though the Scream movies are good fun if you fast-forward through the icky bits, or watch the network television version.

Fantasy, science fiction, and character

I like stuff. I’m sentimental. I still have many of my favourite childhood books. Some are originals, and some are versions I’ve re-acquired to have and hold forever. How Tom Beat Captain Najork and His Hired Sportsman, by Russell Hoban is next on my list. It was such a good time.

Books are something I can get a little fixated on, so I’m careful with my desires. The line between enjoyment and anxiety-based obsession is a thin one at times. At least most of my book wants are easily satisfied. One of the best things about the net is that we now have the ability to order used books from anyone anywhere in the world. It’s not hard to not find what you’re looking for anymore, and most people charge a reasonable delivery fee. This system is a marked improvement over random chance at thrift and used book stores. Though the former are always a good bet for Nancy Drew.

I loved books with girls as the central character when I was a young girl, and that affection remains – I tend to gravitate to novels with women as protagonists. We all like to see ourselves represented in the things we consume.

I liked The Little House on the Prairie books, and the Anne of Green Gables ones best. I reread them regularly – I’m a rereader, not everyone is. I find that as strange as the single readers find me. I liked Beverly Cleary’s Ramona and Beezus stories, and Louise Fitzhugh’s Harriet the Spy. The adventures the children went on in the Enid Blyton and Nancy Drew stories inspired me to brave explorations of my own world. They lived large lives. They were excellent role models.

I liked fantasy stories too, stories of magic and wonder, of different worlds, and fights between good and evil. These stories teach ethics, morality, bravery, and grace. We’re born empty, we aren’t good or evil from the get. Character, for most of us, is learned and acquired. So, what we consume matters. What inspires us matters.

I liked C.S. Lewis’ Narnia books, and Susan Cooper’s The Dark is Rising series. I liked The Gammage Gup, and The Hobbit. I like the underlying messages, that there is a right way and a wrong way (good and evil), that tolerance is vital, that caring for others is imperative, and that we must stand together against what is hurtful, harmful, and wrong in order to build a more beautiful world that will serve everyone equally well.

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