Reading

Henry VIII, in His “Own” Words

What comes to mind when you hear the name Henry VIII?

When author Margaret George asked people this question, here’s a summary of the answer she got: “Henry VIII was a huge, fat, oversexed man with gross table manners who had eight wives, killed them all, and then died of syphilis.” She found out during the course of extensive research that not one of these things about Henry was true, or at least, not entirely true.

So she wrote a 900-page novel about him, making the daring decision to tell his story in first person: The Autobiography of Henry VIII. It’s fiction, but it’s based on solid research, and it provides a fascinating look at the entire character of this complex and important historical figure.

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Reading

Books about Books

Fellow readers, why do we love so much to read books about books and reading? This category of books is so large that you could probably devote an entire year to it and never run out of reading material.

Just recently, I read three fairly short books back-to-back about books and reading—not intentionally, though. One was a book my son was reading for his high school English class (and I’m his teacher, so I read it, too). One was a mostly-forgotten classic that I was lucky to find even one copy of in my library’s catalog of nearly 5 million items. And one was an Amazon suggestion that I had first read 30 years ago.

Two are fiction; one is nonfiction. Two are delightful and charming (even laugh-out-loud funny); one is chillingly prescient. Their publication dates span fifty-three years, and reflect the tremendous changes of the early to mid-twentieth century. Here’s my take on each of these very different books, followed by a list of other books about books that I’ve loved … and a few that I haven’t.

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Parenting

Not Neurotypical: A Love Story

Neurodivergence is the water that I swim in.

As a child, I knew from a very early age that I was “different.” Different from my family, teachers, and classmates, and as I got older, different from my coworkers, neighbors, and extended family. I knew this in my heart, and I also knew it because people told me—and, especially in childhood, usually not in positive ways.

Now, “neurodiversity” wasn’t a term for most of my life, and I had to somehow define or name this thing about me, so I thought of myself as a “black sheep.” I had no other word for my differences, those things about me that I had been told to keep hidden, so that I would fit in with others, have friends, and not be so weird.

In God’s good plan, I married a man who was also “different.” Not in all the same ways that I was different, but still. He was clearly swimming in neurodivergent waters, and we had an immediate “You, too!?” connection. In retrospect, it’s not surprising that we, being two “black sheep” kinds of people, would produce children who (mostly) did not fit into the typical mold. And yet, for whatever reason, I was completely surprised and unprepared when I gave birth to a not-neurotypical child.

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Reading

Same House, Different Worlds: A Mother-Daughter Reading Story

Shared interests are one of the best things about having kids.

At some point, Lord willing, they will begin to love something that you love: Hunting or fishing. Gardening or cooking. Baseball, running, or golf. Cars, trains, or motorcycles. Concerts, movies, or video games. Dogs, cats, or babies. Crocheting or carving wood. Those times when you bond with one of your offspring over a shared love of [whatever] are some of the priceless payoff moments of having children, for sure.

My mother and I both loved to read—we bonded over books we discovered together, books we gave to each other, books we couldn’t wait to discuss, books that inspired us, puzzled us, and made us swoon. My mom and I didn’t have much in common, but from my childhood through my mid-forties when she passed away, books were our common ground. 

So naturally when I had a daughter of my own, I eagerly anticipated sharing books together, reading in tandem, and the wonderful discussions that would follow. (I just assumed she’d be a reader; the possibility of two book-loving parents having a child who did not even like to read never once entered my head back then.)

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Reading

Three Books for Two Weeks of Sickness

I had high hopes that my first “what I’m reading” post would be something really special … an impressive title that showed my discerning taste in reading material (I’m joking—I’m a fairly nondiscriminatory reader and always have been). But instead, my entire household got hit with our first case of COVID and my reading for the past two weeks was whatever I could manage while dealing with frequent fatigue and occasional brain fog.

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Reading

This Reading Life

My life with books goes so far back that I actually can’t remember a time when I didn’t know how to read.

My entire childhood was spent with my “nose in a book,” as my grandfather often said. Books were my comfort, my friends, my treasures, my security, my escape, and my joy. Children who have insecure and disrupted family lives often find solace in something they can control, and my solace was found in books.

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