Reading as a child meant I could pretend to be anywhere else but ‘here’. 

Being a child with an avid imagination, I was always bored with the same routine of school, home and staying within the limits of Birmingham (apart from the few weeks we went on holiday to Wales or France). The first book I read that let me adventure the landscape of my own mind was the book ‘Where the wild things are’, this very much allowed me to conjure up dreams of monsters and islands far away whilst staying put in my own bedroom. Every night, me, my mom, and my siblings would read a book before we went to bed and this was one we would repeatedly read until we could recite the words ourselves (even when I couldn’t read). The extravagant plots of fantastical creatures befriending children led me to the next book I can still picture: ‘The tiger who came to tea’. Wild animals became a big part of my untameable fascination with the wider world- although this was an extreme and more extravagant version of reality; the excitement I would attain from listening to my mom read was a big influence in my adoration for fiction and the creative ways the world can be portrayed (whether that be with the inclusion of beasts or not).

By the time I was 7, I could read these books by myself and would spend afternoons after school reading before going to sleep with these pictures of wild monsters and tigers engraved in my mind. As soon as I entered junior school, teachers expected me to want (and enjoy) more ‘grown up’ books that excluded Mog, a tiger and Carol, Judith, Douglas and KW (the wild things). The only problem with this teacher’s idea was that the school library was packed full of the most boring books you could possibly imagine- I still think to this day it was on purpose to make us grow a hatred for reading! This meant I had to find other ways to read books that were actually enjoyable and so I would always ask and plead my mom for the newest David Walliams’ book (my favourites being Gangster Granny and Mr Stink) or Jeff Kinney’s ‘Diary of a wimpy kid’.

My love for fiction was only to the extent of grannies robbing crown jewels and a cartoon boy who complained about school. This enjoyment stretched over more time than it should have, and my English teachers informed me on authors such as William Golding and the infamous playwright Shakespeare, this did not spark my interest in reading and so by this point I progressed onto obsessing over Harry Potter and would stay friends with Ron and Hermoine until I turned 15/16. The lack of reading I did in secondary school was strongly reflected in the little affection or care I had when it came to the classics we studied in English classes. Despite my encounter with Harry Potter, books were not a source of entertainment for me during my teenage years and this was partly due to the fact there were no books that interested my technology-warped brain nor did any spark a new (and much needed) infatuation of publications to inspire my own literary journey.

By the time my GCSEs came around, my reading habits matured and so did my taste in books. Due to this, Dickens became my ultimate best friend when it came to reading. ‘A Christmas carol’ was the catalyst for my newfound joy in reading and this, in turn, opened a whole new world of books. This novella captured my heart, and every film adaptation was a necessity to my mid teenage years. Following my introduction to a harsh political Victorian London, classic literature grew into a part of my own sense of self, and this is where I sourced out more texts that were deemed ‘classic’.  I needed ‘A Christmas carol’ to bring me back to life and find delight in something within the real world and not pixelated screens. Books were a futile existence during my adolescence.

My next (and most fundamental) read was Wuthering Heights. Emily Brontë was an earth-shattering discovery. Her and her sister, Charlotte, provided me with something I never knew existed and now needed: an intimate narrative with archaic language that provides dated perspectives on life and its politics. Their C19th viewpoint seems otherworldly and fragile. The emotion they protrude through their words are not something we experience in modern society and so the strong emotional interpretation on life they held bewilders yet excites me as a modern reader. Within the context of reception, classic literature (for me) has allowed further exploration for my love of history in a social, and sometimes political, setting.

Without the Brontë sisters, my interest in classic writing would not have birthed in such an academic way. My decision to study English at University was solely a consequence of C19th authors (with a big emphasis on Louisa May Alcott and Jane Austen- whilst still regarding the works of Charlotte and Emily Brontë). This choice was also accompanied with the expectation of reading mostly literature from this time period. However, I was very wrong with the meagre and extremely limited number of books I thought it was going to consist of. The vast array of pieces of writing I have encountered during my time at university so far has dramatically altered my appreciation for both reading and writing. With the inclusion of more contemporary works, I have become more considerate with reading different periods of writings. The two books ‘Call me by your name’ and ‘Diary of an oxygen thief’ have been two significant books I have read that shows a drastic change in my willingness to consume all sorts of novels. These two books were the first I read that were not labelled ‘classic literature’ and so I was shocked to find out classic literature is not the only way to find talented authors and plots so beguiling you forget you are not kissing Mr Darcy or related to the March sisters.

Notably, these books I have become aware of through my educational career means I have been met with a rather big inclination to write myself. Although what I enjoy writing tends to be shorter and much more melodramatic, the tone and fundamental idea of expressive language is ultimately all derived from these books in which provide me a boost of inspiration and (sometimes blind) hope of authorship. However, there are two books I can say are a considerable source of enthusiasm and ardency to write, and they are: ‘A clockwork orange’ and ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’. The two dystopian novels consist of neologies, and these are, in some way, a revelation when writing poetry. In my mind, some things are never approachable by one word so using a neologism gives a never-ending allowance of freedom when speaking from a place of feeling. Moreover, the sense of deep injustice both of these books retain wills my own stance within politics and society to be reflected within my writerly perspective and therefore, become more introspective and contemplative during these cascades of writing.