I am a bookworm.
Besides manga and anime and Western comics, I read. I read prose and poetry and basically whatever book I pick up that interests me. Much of my tween years was spent in the library, and when at home I devoured the stacks of National Geographic and Reader's Digests in my home (although NG was by far of greater availability than RD in my house).
Around the end of last year my aunt passed on to me over a hundred Reader's Digests, and I powered through them in about a month and a half to two months.
I go back and reread them occasionally, looking out for the more striking or heartwarming articles. Among these are usually repeat writers, people who regularly write for Reader's Digest or published writers who send semi-autobiographical articles in.
One of these was Frank McCourt.
The first article, though I didn't then catch the author, was about how he'd gotten his students into writing, setting them as an assignment a note excusing first themselves for being late, and later on excusing Adam and/or Eve to God. It struck me as so funny and so thoughtful that I half-wanted to still be in school, still being set a grade for my fiction.
A later article, at which point I did catch his name, related the tale of how he, through the encouragement of his students and his family, began writing his first novel, Angela's Ashes, the story of his childhood.
Some time later on, in May when the inaugural Library Bookswap was being held, I came across his second novel, 'Tis. It was an unassuming book, with a cover neither attractive nor unattractive. But I picked it out, and kept it, because of who had written it.
The book did not disappoint. Relating the story of his early adult life, from the point he left Ireland for America, it was both humourous and poignant, and struck a chord with me. I could relate to the young Frank, different though he was from me.
However, as I often do when it comes to writers who, as far as I an aware, have not published a book for over a decade, I assumed he was already dead. It was, frankly (pardon the pun), a shock to open the newspaper today and find a half-page article on his death.
Thank you for sharing your story with us, Mr McCourt. It was a pleasure.
(And now, because I tend to feel guilty about not reading everything a dead writer has written, I'll have to go find Angela's Ashes and read it.)
Around the end of last year my aunt passed on to me over a hundred Reader's Digests, and I powered through them in about a month and a half to two months.
I go back and reread them occasionally, looking out for the more striking or heartwarming articles. Among these are usually repeat writers, people who regularly write for Reader's Digest or published writers who send semi-autobiographical articles in.
One of these was Frank McCourt.
The first article, though I didn't then catch the author, was about how he'd gotten his students into writing, setting them as an assignment a note excusing first themselves for being late, and later on excusing Adam and/or Eve to God. It struck me as so funny and so thoughtful that I half-wanted to still be in school, still being set a grade for my fiction.
A later article, at which point I did catch his name, related the tale of how he, through the encouragement of his students and his family, began writing his first novel, Angela's Ashes, the story of his childhood.
Some time later on, in May when the inaugural Library Bookswap was being held, I came across his second novel, 'Tis. It was an unassuming book, with a cover neither attractive nor unattractive. But I picked it out, and kept it, because of who had written it.
The book did not disappoint. Relating the story of his early adult life, from the point he left Ireland for America, it was both humourous and poignant, and struck a chord with me. I could relate to the young Frank, different though he was from me.
However, as I often do when it comes to writers who, as far as I an aware, have not published a book for over a decade, I assumed he was already dead. It was, frankly (pardon the pun), a shock to open the newspaper today and find a half-page article on his death.
Thank you for sharing your story with us, Mr McCourt. It was a pleasure.
(And now, because I tend to feel guilty about not reading everything a dead writer has written, I'll have to go find Angela's Ashes and read it.)