Dear Reader: The Girl You’re Going to Be
Dear Reader,
One of the striking things about growing up is that the author begins addressing the preface to you. When you were very small, books didn’t have prefaces at all. They just had a line or two of dedication, and then they began. Or possibly, they had a Note to the Parent. Either way, you knew it wasn’t for you.
Then you got bigger, and graduated to chapter books. Sometimes (particularly if the chapter book was historical fiction) the author needed to explain to the Teacher which parts were the history and which the fiction. It still didn’t matter. The preface was still obviously not for you.
Then came that golden glory of a day, when you opened your first classic. It was a children’s classic—but those, after all, are the classic-most to be found. It too, had a preface. This time, by somebody who wasn’t the author. Somebody who had read the classic themselves, when they were about your age, and fell in love with it, as you were going to fall in love in the course of a hundred pages, and who had written this preface to tell the world, from the mature heights of Adulthood, that the classic was still as marvelous as the day it was written. You reasoned from experience, and decided the preface was still talking to Somebody Else.
And then, the other day, you picked up a novel. It, too, had a preface. The preface began, “Dear Reader.” For some inexplicable reason, you started to read. And in reading, you made a mind-boggling discovery. The author was addressing you.
On Your Own Responsibility
Everyone knows that growing up means becoming responsible. Some of us love it. Some of us hate it. Some of us are terrified by it. Some of us still haven’t made up our minds.
But we all know that adults are responsible.
It’s the subtle message that popped up with such a jolt when you realized that “Dear Reader” meant you. You! Not your parent. Not your teacher. Not an unknown literary critic at the back of the room. But (as my sister and I love to quote from Mary Poppins) “you personally!”
Oh, the parent, and the teacher, and the literary critic are still going to be there, of course. They’re going to give you advice, that sometimes you’re going to love, and sometimes you’re going to hate, and sometimes will be the only thing that keeps you from floundering altogether.
But more and more, with every passing day, you will feel the truth that they are not the author’s primary focus anymore. The author is not writing for them. They are writing for you. And the words they write, for better or worse, are going to shape the girl you become.
Yikes!
I really couldn’t think of a heading that expresses the feeling in more sophisticated language. It’s wonderful, and alluring, and delightful, and fascinating—and yet, you still want to say “Yikes!”
I can remember vividly being a struggling twelve-year-old, going to bed after sobbing my heart out in my parents’ room. And I can remember my mom saying to me, “You’re going to grow into a wonderful young woman, Courtenay. There’s just going to be some rocky places along the way.”
That’s what I want to say to you, Dear Reader—dear, precious girl, who is just waking up to the amazing, frightful, wonderful power of Books.
You love the Lord Jesus—it’s a weak, doubting, clinging love, maybe, but it’s there. The Lord Jesus loves you—with a strong, perfect, dependable love that will never fail. Together, you are going to navigate this world of literature. Together, you’re going to make a wonderful young woman. There are just going to be some rocky places along the way.
Dear Reader
This new series of posts are from a girl who loves books to other girls who love books. And they are meant to make the rocky places a little easier. No one navigates the boundless tracts of Bookdom without making mistakes. No one grows from a little girl to a wonderful young woman without tears.
But, Dear Reader, the journey is worth it!
You are going to be a wonderful young woman. And you’re going to read some wonderful books along the way.
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