Summers of Fiction

In high school, I never studied - I never really had to. I was in the top tier of my class, I was accepted at the only school at which I applied, and I was riding high. And then? I arrived at college and quickly discovered how devastatingly mediocre I was compared to everyone else.

"I have to study now? How do I even DO that?"

I figured it out, but it took a while. I worked my little ass off, and as each April came to an end, I needed a break. My college summers were nice - I worked here and ate here and drank here. I was on track with my degree, and was lucky to not have to take summer courses. That freedom was amazing in so many ways, but mostly because those were the times that I finally got to read.

As an undergraduate here, I took as many classes as possible in many different fields, just to be sure that I was following the major I had wanted all along: history. I was right-on about my chosen major, but after taking all of those random classes, I discovered that I just had to add a healthy dose of cultural anthropology to the mix (yay for minors!). As an undergraduate, I read constantly. As a history major, I practically read in my sleep.

Not that I didn't love my history classes - I did. I still think about most of them and the impact they had on my college career and now my adult life. And I still remember the first "A" I ever received on a history paper, and it wasn't until my junior year. History's hard, y'all, especially at UofM. It certainly prepared me for graduate school here, so much so that I maintain that undergrad was infinitely more difficult.

But my favorite history class? It was my junior year, and it would have to be Europe in the Era of Total War: 1870-1945. It was fascinating, the professor was fantastic, and the graduate student assigned to my discussion section was attentive, interesting, and fair. He actually cared about his students. And in between desperately wanting his approval, I desperately wanted him. A bit of a crush, you might say.

And he's the one who taught me how to write history.

(I wish that I could have made that sentence, "But he's the one who taught me about history... and so much more," but I can't. It's a shame, really. He was gorgeous.)

Anyway.

I read so much during the school year, from books to journals to course packs, that summer was more than a break - it was an escape. Don't get me wrong - I love history. Now, I switch between fiction and nonfiction with ease, and Christopher Moore's newest book gets me just as excited as the latest from David McCullough. But each summer, history books were out, and fiction was in. I TORE through stacks of books that had been patiently waiting for me for months.

I read fantasy, historical fiction, and Pulitzer winners. Mysteries, chick lit, and Archie comics. It was the summer after my sophomore year that I finally joined the Harry Potter cult and read the first three books in three days.

I didn't read Pride and Prejudice until the summer between my junior and senior year of college (a surprisingly long wait for a British historian, isn't it?). I was absolutely captivated and stayed up until 5:30 in the morning because I just couldn't put it down.

Reading is therapeutic for me, even more so than painting, and there is nothing like a good book. Or fifty.

A small sampling of the Donut's books. And Scrabble.
Mmmm... Scrabble.