The Greatest Gift

Hi! My name is Liza. I taught myself to read when I was only 4 years old. 

Well, that’s the story I wish I could tell you, but such a story would be a big lie.

 I have no idea about when I learnt how to read. I can’t remember anything about learning to read, or about the books I read as a child. I now finally know a lot about the books I didn’t read as a child, but more about that later. It’s embarrassing, and I would like to be able to change all of that, but I can’t. Do you have an interesting story about how you started to read?

Recently, I’ve been teaching my 6-year-old daughter how to read in English. She’s not very interested in learning this skill either, but she goes along with it, because she enjoys it when we spend time together. Sometimes, when she just isn’t focused and can’t remember the letters we’ve been learning for the last week, I have to summon up every ounce of patience in my being, not to scowl with desperation. See, I want her to have a good story to tell about how she started reading. Who would I be scowling at in any case? Most probably, at the 6-year-old me, who couldn’t care less about letters and sounds.  

At the end of the day, most of us eventually learn to read. For some, it just takes longer. I adore little Aaron’s reading story in Andrea Beaty’s children’s book, Aaron Slater, Illustrator. It brought me to tears, and it filled my heart with joy and inspiration when I first came across it. This beautiful story shares this very concept with the youngest of children. Reading isn’t easy for everyone, but we can all learn it in the way that suits us best. Like little Aaron in this book, I turned to drawing to express my ideas. Reading and writing took a backseat for a while.

Even though I had a slow start to reading, I have an exciting first reading memory. It’s pretty random, and it doesn’t match up with the rest of my reading history, but I’ll share it anyway. When I was 6, I flew by myself to South Africa from Spain. The big red pouch around my neck, designating me as an unaccompanied minor, made me feel very independent and special. My mum had packed me a little bag with toys and treats, to comfort me during this 10-hour flight, and inside, I found a Spanish comic book. I couldn’t speak much Spanish, and I couldn’t read yet, but I must have known some letter sounds, because I recall reading the Spanish text by spelling out the words, and thinking to myself: ‘This is great, I can read in Spanish!’ I was convinced that I was reading the comic, and it thrilled me. 

Once back home in South Africa, I started primary school, ready to start reading. But it was not at all what I expected it to be. I remember the weekly spelling tests that we needed to take. I wasn’t very good at spelling, and I dreaded these tests. This was when I became very close to the trickster inside of me. I constructed and devised ways in which to cheat and hide. I somehow made it through the first few years of primary school, always vigilant of when I might be called on to read something out loud, to write an answer on the board, or to explain my grades to my mum. 

I remember that, in moments of desperation, my mum had to turn to bribery to get me to read a few pages. I could watch television only after I read a certain amount of pages. I remember reading and rereading parts of Tom Swayer repeatedly, just to get the page count I needed. To this day, I can’t understand why I was not interested in reading. 

The only books that ever captured my imagination were books by Roald Dahl. I remember reading Matilda, and being fascinated with the creativity and cleverness of the story. It’s ironic that the first work of literature I ever really enjoyed was about a little girl who taught herself to read at the age of 4. I enjoyed most of the other books by Roald Dahl, and I remember reading Charlie in the Chocolate Factory, The BFG and The Witches. Oh, wow! These books added a new dimension to my life. 

I had a copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but I’m not sure I ever read it properly. I recall a book with a character named Anastasia, I remember thinking that Anastasia was such an exotic name. Alas, I remember nothing of the story. I think I was fond of the Nancy Drew books, but I can’t remember much about them, either. I’m sure you have a much better story about the books you read as a kid. My story ends right here.

Something changed around the time that I was 13 or 14 years old. My mum gave me a copy of Eva Luna by Isabel Allende. She probably didn’t think I would ever read the whole thing, with my track record, but I devoured it. If Roald Dahl showed me that the world of fiction could take me to otherworldly places, Isabel Allende ripped my heart out of my chest, and propelled me into a world of such divine mysticism and prose that my brain could barely keep up. To me,  Eva Luna will forever be a sacred scripture. As a teenager, I read The House of Spirits, The Infinite Plan, and Of Love and Shadows. By now I have read everything Isabel Allende ever published. I will forever be a true follower of her work. When I was about 16, I vowed to name my child after her. I made good on that promise. Furthermore, her books made up for all the awkward, not-so-educational, sex education sessions I received in school. 

My mum had joined a book club and shared all her books with me. She wasn’t censoring books because of the content. She was a generous and open-minded mother, and this is one of the biggest gifts she has given me. Later on, she gave me a copy of Jane Eyre. It had been her favourite book at my age, and she thought that I would like it, too. How right she was. Even today, my mum is one of my favourite people to discuss books with. We often talk about the books we are reading, and she always has a recommendation for me. From those days in high school, other books that made a big impression on me include Angela’s Ashes, Running with Scissors, and A Secret History. My high school reading story turned out to be unexpectedly rich and meaningful, with literary threads that would forever keep me tied to my mother.

After I finished high school, there were three books that my stepfather insisted I read. They were The Fountain Head by Ayan Rand, The Drifters by James Michener, and 1984 by George Orwell. Without me realising it at the time, they were the most meaningful gifts he could ever have given me. 

Ayan Rand opened a part of my mind and presented me with ideas, which invited me to look at the world in new ways. Writing of this calibre seemed impossible. How could something be written so well? How could thoughts like these even exist? My young brain was overwhelmed, but I wanted to experience more. My friend Marga shares my appreciation for Ayan Rand, and through her, I learned about Atlas Shrugged. During these formative years of my reading history, books became a way to connect with people. I found this concept deeply satisfying and comforting, and this feeling has grown bigger and deeper as the years passed.

James Michener’s The Drifters planted the seeds for a travel-filled life. I have since read countless of Michener’s books, and each time I feel enriched with new knowledge and an expanded understanding of the world. Because of books like Hawaii, The Covenant and Centennial, I have a much better understanding of how things came to be as they are. James Michener’s books will always hold a special place in my heart. How else could I have learnt so much history, in such an enjoyable way?

George Orwell’s 1984 made a great impression on my young mind. It planted a growing curiosity and attraction to books that challenge our perspectives on time and place. My favourite books of this kind include Aldous Huxley’s A Brave New World, Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go, David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas, Anthony Doerr’s Cloud Cuckoo Land, and most recently, A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki. 

My favourite art has always been that which includes some essence of surrealism. Now, I came into contact with books that used prose to express these intriguing concepts. This was the start of an infatuation I developed with surrealist writing. Years after I read 1984, I was thrilled to discover that my youngest sister Jeanne had found my copy of this book. 

I studied Fine Arts at university, and even though these were years filled with a great appreciation for art books, literature took a backseat. Perhaps the reading load for philosophy and religious studies took up all of my time. More likely, I was busy with the other important things in life, like relationships and parties. 

This is, however, when my best friend came into my life. Unlike me, she is a little Matilda. She had read all the books in the children’s library by age 8 and moved on to The Lord of the Rings and Charles Dickens, while I was pretending to be reading five pages of a chapter book, just to get to the television. Once again, can you spot the irony of me seeking friendship in a person so much like Matilda?

Simone inhales texts of all shapes and sizes, but most importantly, she shares them. I remember reading her copy of Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones’s Diary when we were both struck with homesickness during our first days in Aspen, Colorado. She is the one who handed me J.K. Rowlings’s Harry Potter, way back when he was still relatively unknown. Simone insisted I read Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy, which I was hooked on when I serendipitously met Lukas, who would one day become my husband. She introduced me to Amy Tan, who was to become one of my big literary icons. For years, Simone tried to get me to read His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman, which I eventually finished, just a few months ago. Our friendship has grown deeper and more meaningful throughout the years, and the thread that will forever tie us together is our love for reading and sharing. Now that we are mothers, our range has expanded exponentially.

Fast forward a few years. Reading finally became a conscious part of my daily life. Like many people, I mostly read before bedtime, and on holidays. Honestly, though, I get the most reading done when I’m sick in bed. 

Authors fly in and out of my life, and themes and styles present themselves. I became a devoted follower of Murakami. His surreal stories intrigue, confuse, and stimulate me, leaving me feeling awakened and needing more. I read his What I Talk About When I Talk About Running several times, feeling a great kindred spirit with this genius of a man, who, like me, is also a runner. Above all, I was delighted when my sister Zani asked me about Murakami, and I could recommend books for her to read.

Chimamanda Adichie’s daring stories, woven together by feminist ideas, spectacular prose, and radiant characters never ceased to entrance me. Books by Khaled Hosseini, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Milan Kundera broadened my perspectives and dug up deep wells of curiosity. There are too many spectacular authors to name, so many great minds and hearts that have gifted this world with masterful work. Who are your favourite authors?

What I grew to appreciate most, however, were books recommended or gifted to me. This has happened in the many chapters of my adult life, set in a variety of geographic locations

When I moved to Prague in my late 20s, my partner (now husband) Lukas educated me in Czech ways by suggesting books I should read. I read Jaroslav Hašek’s The Good Soldier Svejk, Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, and Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. As a learner of the Czech language, I read short stories by Jan Neruda. Once I felt confident enough to read novels, I enjoyed Czech books recommended by friends, like Radka Třeštíková’s Babovky, Patrik Hartl’s Malý pražský erotikon, Alena Mornštajnová’s and Slepa Mapa. 

During this first chapter in Prague, I worked as a teacher. I met Vanessa when she hired me as a preschool teacher at an international art preschool. To this day, she has been a great friend and mentor to me. The first lesson she taught me was that of engagement. She possesses the uncanny power of capturing people’s attention, especially children's. I remember performing Green Eggs and Ham with her, I was Sam, but she was the star, and all eyes were on her. Among many other things, she introduced me to Dr. Suess and his wonderful world of words. Vanessa has started to write children’s books of her own, and Dr. Suess’s influence on her work is beautifully reflected. Watching her ideas grow from her theatrical plays and pictures, and then be realised into book form, has been inspiring. 

During this time at the preschool, my coworker Melissa gave me a book called Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson. I didn’t understand why she thought to share it with me, but I found it incredibly meaningful. This book gifted me many ideas. It also introduced me to the concept of service in education. 

Soon after, I had a teaching partner named Mairead. We were doing a unit on ‘The Circus’ with our Year 2 classes, and she gave me The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstein. This book made our unit more fun and meaningful, and it created a thread that will tie her to me for eternity.

While working as an art teacher in Beijing, my teacher friend José unexpectedly walked into my classroom, handed me his copy of Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert, and said, ‘You will love this.’ Once again, I was perplexed, but grateful. I learnt about Andrea Beaty’s children's books through my friend Adam, who shared with us the story of Rosie Revere, Engineer. Sally, another great mentor of mine, gave me her copy of Anita Diamant’s The Red Tent. 

At this point, I finally understood that this is something great humans do. They share books. I had been living this reality for many years, but I was now starting to understand it as one of the most valuable connections there is to make. What greater gift is there than sharing stories and ideas? What greater gift is there than acknowledging someone’s taste? Can you recall a book that someone gave to you?

Simone (the little Matilda) was the one who introduced me to Audible when she gifted me Trevor Noha’s Born a Crime. Doing so, she not only shared a great book with me, but she also opened the door to a whole new world. There was just so much to choose from, and for the first time, I took a deep dive into non-fiction. I was entranced by all of Yuval Noah Harari’s work. I learned so much from people like Malcolm Gladwell, Jay Shetty, Melinda Gates, Shefali Tsabary, Glennon Doyle, and on and on. Each book would introduce me to more extraordinary people and authors from the past and present, and it all seemed rather endless. 

Now, let me share a little secret with you. I think that writers are the smartest and most creative people alive. I vividly remember finishing Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr, and not understanding how it was possible to write such an incredible story. I thought about it for a long time, breaking down everything he needed to do. He needed the skills to construct those sentences, structure the chapters, and compose a flow. He needed to conjure up ideas, research needed to be done, and he needed the cognitive ability to work out and edit the pieces that made up this breathtaking puzzle. Like Roald Dahl, Isabel Allende, Ayn Rand, Donna Tartt, Amy Tan and Haruki Murakami. How do they do this magic?

I want to be able to do this magic!

Well, I didn’t say that with half the confidence that you probably imagined I did. It was more like a whisper–a very soft, muffled, insecure whisper. Also, every time I said it, I would either laugh at myself for even proposing something so preposterous, or I would break down and cry. I had a heavy case of imposter syndrome, but somehow the yearning to learn how to write was stronger than my tolerance for feeling inadequate. Now that I was finally a reader, I wanted to become a writer. All I needed to do was to find out how one learns about writing.

I had written some things in high school. I even loved writing poetry as a teenager. I had a few years of humanities and educational studies behind me, and I needed to write during those. I had done a course in scriptwriting, and I had written and animated two short films, a hundred years ago. As a teacher, I have written a million reports and many letters. I keep a journal, and sometimes I actually write in it. 

I felt like a complete novice. 

I felt like a 40-year-old jogger, dreaming about running a marathon at the Olympics. At least such a runner could refer to What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. 

I needed an education, so I turned to books. I started with Brian McDonald, reading everything he had to say in his books about writing. I listened to Stephen King talk about his writing journey in an audiobook, On Writing. I turned to MasterClass, and here I found Judy Blume, Neil Gaiman, R. L. Stine, and Amy Tan. They made it seem easy, but they all said the same thing: just write. 

So–I started writing. It was a slow process, just like learning to read had been. Once again, I felt inadequate, and the trickster in me sought shortcuts. Only, this time, there were none. 

I started writing a children's story. Who better to write for than my daughters? To do so, I started reading all of those children’s books I never read as a child. I listened as my eldest daughter read me books by David Walliams and Jeff Kinney’s Wimpy Kid series. We read books by Kate DiCamillo together. I read new books on the market, and I spent hours in libraries and bookshops, looking for clues. I really liked Coraline and The Graveyard Book, both by Neil Gaiman, not to mention Terry Pratchett’s The Wee Free Men. My daughters and I binged on Studio Ghibli’s animated movies. I learnt as much about Hayao Miyazaki as I possibly could. I read countless Julia Donaldson picture books, and thousands of others, with my youngest daughter. I did the Maestro course by Julia Donaldson and one by David Walliams. For goodness' sake, I finally read His Dark Materials (and then, I made Lukas read it).

My middle-grade children’s book has seen several transformations and even a developmental edit. I’m still sending it out to literary agents, and I’ve now started collecting rejection letters like most writers talk about. I wear them as a rite of passage. Actually, to be honest, they are just stabs in my heart. I wrote and illustrated a picture book called Izzie and Me for my youngest daughter. I created a biographical photo book with illustrations, entitled 10 Years of Andi in the World, for my eldest when she turned 10. I started writing a series of short stories that all take place on a bus. I’m working on these stories with a warm and encouraging editor, named Dr. Patty. I write like it is my day job, even though only a few people ever read my work, and I’m not getting paid at all. Yet.

Along the way, I met Aga. She is the first friend to whom I could introduce myself as a writer. She is also a writer, and we have engaging creative sessions to discuss our projects and processes. What we like to talk about most are books and stories.I introduced Aga to Isabel Allende, and she introduced me to Clarissa Pinkola Estés’s Women Who Run With The Wolves. We made sure that there were strong threads that tied us together.

 Aga is the one who encouraged me to share my stories, so you can blame this wordy blog post on her. Just kidding, but it is partly because of her that I am starting to post these stories on my blog. Going forward, my posts–my stories–will be about books gifted to me, and my attempt to share what they mean to me. 

Okay, I’m nearly at the end of this very long story, giving an overview of my reading and writing history. There is just one more thing that I need to get back to. As I mentioned at the beginning of this story, my first memory of reading was when I read a comic book in Spanish. It’s a bit of a random memory. I mean, it is a beautiful memory, but all my memories about reading as a kid that followed were filled with regret and despair. When I think about it, I can’t help but wonder: Could this Spanish comic book have been the first book given to me, with no reader to read it, but me? Is that why I believed that I could read it? I can’t say for sure, but I am very drawn to this explanation, and think I`ll keep it. That way, I can reintroduce myself by saying: 

‘Hi, I’m Liza! I taught myself to read Spanish when I was 6.’ 

And now you have a much better idea of who I am.