Surrounded by Stories

I’ve always been surrounded by stories. Whether they were the ones spouted from my mouth—convincing friends and neighbours that I had indeed survived an earthquake at the age of 4—or the ones I consumed, hidden underneath my blanket, guided by a flashlight, well beyond bedtime. I couldn’t escape their magic.

            In the United States, where I completed my primary education, my school held an annual book fair. By far, my favourite week of the year, no matter my age. I would ask my teacher if I could duck down to pick something up, and I’d lose myself amongst the shelves for half an hour. My parents didn’t hesitate to give me cash to spend there each day, because my reading was encouraged.

            Once I reached high school, and I began spending every afternoon down the main street of Kiama, flitting between the two bookshops. I’d come home, sporting 2 to 5 new titles, and my parents claimed I had a problem.

            My Dad made a rule: if I brought home a new book, one had to leave the shelves. It’s safe to say I never abided by that law and continued to hoard titles.

            Teachers would claim that my school work began to suffer. Science was never my forte. In year 10, I knew full well that I wouldn’t continue the subject into my senior years. So, I would nurse a book on my lap, and read underneath the desk. My teacher would look at me down his nose, raising his eyebrows in disbelief and I’d reply: Sir, I’ve done my work, I’m not continuing with science and I’m not disrupting the class. He’d nod in agreement; I wasn’t a distraction to other students. As long as I did what was required, he would let me read my book in peace.

            When a book was too good, I’d often steal to the library during lunch and recess. Hiding in the far corner, my nose buried in the spine. Sure, my friends and peers made comments, but no one went so far as to tease me for my preference of books over socialising. I felt like I was in on some little secret and they were the ones missing out.

            At this age, I didn’t know I would pursue a career in creative writing. While story-telling and creative aspects of English came easy to me, I didn’t know that I could dedicate my life to it. I dreamed of moving far away where I might set up camp and open up a bookshop café.

            So when my friend told me that a young couple in Kiama—who I knew through mutual friends—were opening up a bookshop café, my initial reaction was jealousy. How dare they achieve my dream before me. My mindset quickly ticked over. If you can’t beat them, join them.

            I sat down at brunch with my close friend, who claimed she was going to ask Hannah and Clay for a job. I was moving too slow. I needed to get in before her. I made a trip to the restroom mid-meal and constructed a lengthy message to Hannah, boasting of my creative writing degree and 10 years hospitality experience.

             A month or so later, I officially joined the team of staff and my dream of working alongside stories became a reality. I found a way to get paid for talking to people about reading. A total win in my books.