mary e. pearson

Last month when I had a live chat over at Readergirlz, the questions were flying fast and furious and I didn't get a chance to answer them all. One particularly stopped me:

Which book has made the biggest impact on you?

Hm. That is a BIG question. Considering the hundreds of books I have read, how do I choose one? Where to start? And then an unlikely choice came into my head--a book I hadn't thought about in years--of all things, a basal reader. The old whole language reading teacher in me recoiled. But it's true. The Dick and Jane basal readers had a huge impact on me--the six year old me.

A world, at last, was unlocked. I was reading. I got it. Even after several decades I still have the fuzzy memory of a little girl sitting with an open book on her lap at school and the magic that had once only belonged to my mother, my teachers, or other adults, now belonged to me too. I could read independently. So what that Dick, Jane, and dear old Spot weren't the most imaginative of characters. And maybe they were just a tad too good. Maybe that is when my own imagination kicked in and I wondered about all the other stories that could be told in a book.  But Dick and Jane got me started on that journey of exploring the worlds that existed in between the covers of books--and exploring it on my own. That was huge and had an incalculable impact.



But still, I pondered that question some more, and I realized that there were lots of books--and usually quite unexpected ones--that had impacts on all the different me's, the many readers I have been over the years.


Do you know who's asleep out in Foona Lagoona?
When I was seven I received my very first hard cover book that was all my own. It wasn't part of our very modest "family library" which was only two small bookcases. This book was all mine. I discovered the thrill of book ownership--a book that would always be mine:  Dr. Seuss's Sleep Book. 

There is something intangibly wonderful about owning a book. I suspect the wonder of it is not in the physical book itself, but perhaps in the feeling that you will always have a partnership or relationship to the story. It will always be there for you to re-experience. There will be more "conversations" with the story down the road--some joys to be rediscovered and new ones to be uncovered. It is a trust that you may both show up at any moment in time and bring something new to the story.

And then of course, this thought made me remember another book that lit a light in me:



When I was in high school, our whole class read Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. After reading Beowulf I think our class thought this was going to be easy. I thought the teacher was nuts. It was a children's book for goodness sake. I had seen the Disney movie. Why were we reading this in a high school English class? That was the year that I learned that great books can be enjoyed on many levels by many ages (and also that a Disney film is by no means representative of all that a book holds.) Our wise teacher showed us the stories behind the story, the symbolism and the sarcasm, and introduced us to a new kind to literary criticism, exploring the adult subtext in a children's story.  And even now, years later I see new things that speak to the new person I am.
". . . she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman ; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long-ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child- life . . . "

I think it's time for me to revisit Alice again . . .


Another book that made a lasting impact on me during my high school years was one I accidentally happened upon in my parent's bedroom:


Ewwwww. My parents were still having sex? Ewwwww again. And they were looking for new ways to have it?! Omigod. The illustrations! It was too gross. But darn, if I didn't look at Every. Single. Page. And here I thought that all non-fiction was boring. Wrong. There was a whole non-fiction world out there beyond my high school textbooks that I hadn't discovered. Since then I have read and loved much non-fiction. I devour writing memoirs and how-to books especially. There is so much experience out there waiting to be shared for the price of a book. It's practically a miracle, really.

Still again in my high school years I was especially taken with another book. It belonged to my mother and I returned to it again and again: 101 Famous Poems

Although I read many books of poetry, there was something special about this one. On every single page, along with the poem was a photo or drawing of the author. So as I read the poem I could imagine the real human being behind it. You have to remember that this was in the days before "author visits" and I had never seen a real live author and rarely did any of their photos appear on book jackets. I was especially drawn to the photos of the female poets, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Mary Howitt, Emily Dickinson, and more. These were real women authors. Some of them looked like they could have been older relatives. Women I might know. The photos gave me another connection to their work, and also perhaps hope that ordinary people do become writers and authors. And at seventeen I certainly was and felt ordinary. Of course now today, I know that writers are ordinary in every way--they simply have a passion for their work which happens to be writing--but maybe back then, those tiny photos that peeked out to me from every page gave me a first glimpse of a real writing life.

And finally . . .

I am not a crier.  I rarely cry when I read a book, even when I am deeply touched.  I am more likely to pause, feeling a knot in my throat, and wait to go on.  But cry?--rarely--even when I'm writing my own very difficult scenes.  But I do remember finishing The Outsiders when I was sixteen and sobbing.  And then turning right around and immediately reading it again, and sobbing again. 


But I think I was crying for myself as much as the story.  I knew I wanted to be a writer, I just didn't know what kind.  I had mostly read classics and poetry by--as far as I could tell--dead people.  They wrote of other times and worlds.  But this book here, this was my world.  This was real to me.  This was the kind of story I wanted to write.  I hadn't known such books existed until I read The Outsiders.  Most of the YA books I had read belonged to my mother's generation.  I don't think they were even called YA or teen books back them. Yes, I had enjoyed them, but they didn't speak to me as deeply as this book did.  I recognized the characters.  I understood how they spoke.  Their fears were mine even if their exact situation wasn't.

It wasn't until many years later that I actually began writing for publication, but  the impact of that book, and all the others that came before were still there, sewn into me not just as a reader but as a writer as well.  Ultimately, I am a selfish writer.  I write books for me, the kind I want to read--the six year-old me, the fourteen year-old me, the seventeen year-old me, and the me I am today.   I think the legacy of many books--even those that aren't necessarily our favorites--is that they open doors and introduce us to new ways of thinking or understanding.  That's what those books did for me. 

Now it's your turn. Share a book or books--perhaps unexpected ones like mine--that left a lasting impact on you. 

Share.