I’ve been thinking of the consequences of a writer growing up in a house without books. Not a dictionary nor an encyclopedia, not even a newspaper. My parents were literate in their native language (Italian) and moved smoothly from Sicilian dialect to Italian in speech. They spoke English well, having been here since the early 50s and owning their own business. They wrote in Italian as well. They valued education a great deal. But … they had no interest in reading whatsoever. The habit of reading in others was a considered a wasteful (and puzzling) enterprise.

I came to reading later, much later than most perhaps for someone who enjoys reading. It was in my late teens and it began as a result of not wanting to deal with people I now think. I was the typical sullen, unhappy teenager. I was often chastised by my mother when “caught” with a book in my bedroom. It was almost as if I had been caught with a bag of weed or a condom. There was work to be done! Why wasn’t I sweeping or cleaning up or getting ready for the numerous responsibilities of the family business (this involved maintaining a vendor’s stall at the Farmers Market in Hamilton where I grew up). It was an all consuming family enterprise. To be fair, my mother was dealing with her own many griefs and frustrations then.

With my nose stuck in a book did that not scream – leave me alone I’m reading! I read at work, between serving customers, while standing behind the stall (don’t read - it looks like you’re not ready to serve people!). I read at home (don’t you have something to do?). I consumed school related texts.

So I drifted into reading and fell in love with Gatsby and Daisy. Lizzie and Darcy. Anna and Vronsky. Becky Sharpe. Fully expecting them to love me back.