Years ago I put myself on a highly restricted reading diet. I judged myself to be lacking the self control to put down a really great novel, therefore neglecting my family. Deeply consumed in a story, I might forget to, I don’t know, make dinner? Give the kids a bath?

Okay, that’s not really true. I’m not that bad. If I’m too caught up in a book, I do  the minimum required of me, which is still quite a bit. The real problem is that I became distracted, thinking of ways to finish everything faster so I could return to my book.

I’d find myself anxious and bored when I turned the last page. And I would need another, right away. Like an addict. So I had to restrict myself.

For years I read nonfiction almost exclusively. It was always somehow useful. Like sensible shoes. It wasn't boring because I was always learning something new. 

Anyway, about six months ago I let myself read a novel. Two months later I read another. Then in January, because I wasn’t feeling so great, I started binging like an adolescent bulimic all alone in a donut shop.

Sorry, that was gross. I just finished a novel about a mom helping her teen with bulimia and the images are still stuck in my head.

Anyway, my binge coincided with my daughter’s requirement to temporarily give up her favorite genre to read a biography for school.

“Non- fiction is so boring,” she declared, as if she was sentenced to read a math textbook. I reminded her, not so gently, that I write mostly nonfiction and it is mostly not boring.

 “Oh yeah, well, right.”

“Real life is far more interesting than fiction,” I insisted, glancing at the Kristin Hannah novel I had picked up the night before, feeling a smidge hypocritical. “I saw a book you will like.”

So the next night, I headed out to Borders (which will be sorely missed) and picked up the young adult version of Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson. I was certain it would hold her attention. And it did.

From Publishers Weekly: 

In 1993, while climbing one of the world's most difficult peaks, Mortenson became lost and ill, and eventually found aid in the tiny Pakistani village of Korphe. He vowed to repay his generous hosts by building a school; his efforts have grown into the Central Asia Institute, which has since provided education for 25,000 children. Retold for middle readers, the story remains inspirational and compelling.

Over the next week she shared little bits and pieces of the story with me, anxious to discuss it. I went back again, for a copy of the bestseller for myself so we could enjoy it together.

She caught me cuddled up on the couch with the dog, absorbed in the book. “It’s really great, right?” I nodded, thinking I needed to hurry up and order dinner from Vroom Service.

She discovered many things from her adventure into nonfiction, from learning about the culture of Pakistan, to the challenge of mountaineering and the even greater obstacles Mortenson faced while building schools across Pakistan. She was inspired. She had a new understanding of our world and her heart was opened a little wider to the needs of children on the other side of the planet.

As for me, I was rescued from slipping off the edge of reality into the endless selection of fictitious and satisfying happy endings. Temporarily escaping reality isn’t a bad thing. Sometimes you need too. I just have to remember to return a little more quickly.  And cook dinner.