After finishing My Reading Life, a memoir by Pat Conroy, I felt an urge to follow his example. In it, he shares his coming of age through the usage of English teachers and classical works. As I reflected on my own development, I have come to realization of how much literature has played a role in life. This past year I have read an extensive amount of literature, and I feel that this year will be even larger, which will appear more laborious than the previous year. My hope would be to finish all the novels by Margaret Atwood this year, and so far, I've read five of the thirteen, which means I have some work to do. But alas, I digress.

Today I wanted to follow suit with the previous day's work and share more of my experience with literature. In it, I hope you find humor. Enjoy.

Middle school was drastically different and nothing could have prepared me for the work load they would untimely set before me. To be twelve and come to realization that you are no longer a child, but a teenager was an adjustment, to say the least. Considering, we lost recess, among other things, which at the time shattered my world. No longer, were we given three separate times a day to go outside, interact in a new environment, and clear the air from the room. Instead, they gave us gym. This was three times a week, five once I reached seventh grade.  It was also the year that another student joined our class. His name was Johnny Tremain.

We were told how he had such depth and cleverness, considering he had so many awards, namely the Newberry. He had been portrayed as fun and relatable. Oh how, we use shallow words to cover up the truth. In short, Johnny Tremain would be the book we would be reading for the new two months, and at the time, be writing a paper on every other week. I feel my teacher wanted to play up the novel because of how horribly boring it truly was. 

I understand now the gravity that was carried within this novel, though I still have such apprehension at the mention of it's name. To be blunt, I abhor this novel. I cannot say that I side with the critics on this book, because it does not transcend time. Very little, is remotely relatable. 

You could only image my twelve-year old self tacking such an arduous and trivial piece of historical fiction. I loved to read and this book, with all of it's blatant nuances, drawl conversions, and sheer unappealing presentation, began to make me question if I truly enjoyed reading. Coupled with extensive assignments, and this was shaping up to be the worst novel written of all time.   

Johnny Tremain would eventually pass, but a sour taste was left in my mouth for reading. This book seemed to suck the life out reading and any enjoyment that could be had in such an activity. This would be my first step toward apathetic reading, and it would take a substantial amount of time to get out of this groove.

Six grade would lead to seventh. Ah, the seven grade. This was the year were I was beginning to find my place in the social hierarchy, along with the discovery of my own uniqueness. It was also the year, that they introduced to a book that was guaranteed to bring enjoyment. Or at least, that is what was conveyed.

This brings me to the next book in the cycle, Watership Down. A grueling tale of survival for a colony of rabbits. They tried to protect themselves from the outside world and used strong language.. It had everything that a young boy wanted: violent battles, profanity, and characters engaged in thrill seeking. 

Watership Down, another prizing winning novel, was merely boring. The profanity in it, stirred parents to have all of the curse words blanked out. This meant that all the books had multiple Sharpie blocks, covering up terrible words, that should not even be uttered. Then there was the dialogue. The cockney accents were subpar and this only served to make the novel that less appealing as it was difficult to read. 

This novel felt so long and drawn out, that we took over two months to finish it as a class. Even after finishing it, comprehension and understanding, were anything but intelligible. The book came and went, leaving me with such a distaste for reading and crippling my desire to do more. Truly, this was the height of my reader's apathy. 

What book(s) have been the toughest for you to find interest/enjoyment/value in reading? Was there ever a book that just made you feel like you hated reading?