I loved to read, so much so that I made an almost daily trip down the hill from my school (a 15-minute walk) to the downtown library. There I would pick up several books, and grab the bus home. It didn't take long before I had consumed most of the books the librarians considered age appropriate in the children's library. I really wanted something else. It was pretty simple stuff, and so at about seven years old, I started going to the adult library.
One of first books I took out was Jack London's "Call of the Wild." It seemed very thick. No colourful pictures. A few pen sketches of a dog and a wolf. I was a bit wary of it, but I took it home. I started to read.
I don't know how long I was reading, I only know I was drawn into the story. I didn't know all the words, but I figured them out from context. Somewhere I vaguely remember carrying the book to the supper table, fibbing to my mother that my homework was done. Don't know what I had for supper. Don't remember going back to my room. The words morphed into powerful feelings and pictures. My heart and mind were totally invested in the story, and it felt like watching a wonderful movie in my head. I could see each character vividly. I read into the night, the whole book. Couldn't stop. I laughed, held my breath at the suspense, jumped as surprise plots, and at the end I cried and cried. When I stopped crying, I knew I had to have more books like that.
Jack London taught me what a real book could be. He also enriched my vocabulary and made me a fearless reader. So, I thank you, Mr. London, for that amazing story. It tipped the balance and made me not only want to read, but also to write.
A few years ago, I decided I wanted to write a book — just one of the things on my bucket list. So I did. It's not published, and may never be. I just wanted to know I could do it, and I did. It helped me see that sometimes we can stretch ourselves to reach places we didn't think we could go.
I thank Jack London for that, too.
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