My experience of reading hasn’t always been the most enjoyable. It’s mostly been about impressing my dad, who hammered it into my brain from birth that non-readers were ignoramuses, dangerously unimaginative, and probably inbred. So I spent the first 20 or so years of my life forcing myself to read, and only within the genres of which he would approve. All the while telling myself that I was having a grand ol’ time. Ah…daddy issues.
Things changed when I moved away from home, however. It became necessary to reject my dad’s tastes, and to prove that I was my own motherfucking person. I also started working in bookshops at around the same time, so the idea dawned on me that I could…wait for it…read for my own pleasure. Crazy, I know. So began my first real literary exploration, which lead me to the book I want to talk about today. In my life as a reader, there is a before and after The Roundhouse.
Musings of a Mutie 