Reading inspires writing; who would've thought?

I have this urge to read that I haven't experienced in a long time.

I just finished reading a favorite childhood story of mine, Peter Pan. But this time it was not told in Disney form. Peter Pan is more complicated but in the simplest of ways. You want to love him but you feel as if he is always passing by, a character you are never quite able to grasp. You want to get to know him as someone deeper, but for what J.M. Barrie shows, he is simply a boy who himself doesn't know who or even what he is. And what about Wendy? My beloved character who I have sworn I would name my daughter after is true to most of what I knew and assumed she would be; until the end. At the end of the book she has grown up. And Peter comes to see Jane, her daughter, and fly her off into Neverland. Sure, there was a cartoon movie about Jane but I simply dismissed it. Wendy grows up, this we know, but she's not suppose to see Peter again.

I think that's what is with the book that depresses me so much. The book is suppose to end with Peter returning to Neverland, and Wendy growing up, with only the memory of Peter and what he meant to her. Nana is not suppose to die, and Mrs.Darling is not suppose to be forgotten about. And Tinker Bell, the sassy fairy you love despite her hatred, disappears. We assume she dies, but Peter doesn't remember her. The fairy who saved Peter's life is simply gone. There really is no happily ever after.

I am trying to wrap my mind around what that must mean. Why Barrie decided that the book would end so mournfully. Why the tradition seems to carry on, that Wendy's daughter flies off to Neverland, only to return, grow up, and have a daughter of her own. Then Jane's daughter, Margaret, flies off, returns, grows up, and too has a daughter. And so it continues. The book really never comes to an end.

And the theme with mothers. It is such a prominent theme in the book that both the cartoon and real-life movie couldn't avoid it. But how does that relate to never growing up? Is it this strong desire to always stay young, but in order to do so we must have a mother? Well that wouldn't make sense because Peter doesn't have a mother. Is it that we need a mother and therefore we must grow up, for without her we cannot? Well that seems to make a little more sense. Perhaps Barrie understood how necessary it is for a child to have a mother, so that he or she can grow up into a responsible adult. But yet, that seems to ruin the feel for the book. The reason the book is so precious is because of the idea that there is Peter Pan in all of us…no one really wants to grow up.

Maybe this is something I'm not supposed to grasp. I've always viewed the story of Peter Pan in a bittersweet way. The story, to me, is the preciousness of childhood, and how we all yearn for it. But the reality is we must grow up. The only way we can escape is to fly to the second star on the right, and keep going until the sun rises. But we know that if we were to do this, we would be missing out on the love for the people around us. Children are meant to grow up. Except for one.

Regardless of Peter Pan, I enjoyed reading the story so much I've realized I've forgotten how much I enjoy fiction. For so long now I have been reading biographies and autobiographies and tales of true stories that happened in real life. I have held a grudge against fiction because of how deceiving it is. Fiction novels can oftentimes feel just a little too real. I don't want to be distracted by what is false. I enjoy wrestling with the truth, even if it can be a little more boring.

But I've forgotten the need for fiction. The need to escape from reality. I've forgotten how relieving it is to read a story that is completely false and find joy in it. I've forgotten how sweet it is to get lost in daydreams. Perhaps this is why I've found a deep struggle for motivation to read over the past year. Reality has become more of a burden than a relief.

So I've started a brand new list of books I desire to read, and this time there is more fiction than there is non. I have Nabokov's Lolita at the top of my list, a book I have had intentions of reading since I've heard The Police's "Don't Stand So Close to Me" (no, even though Sting was a teacher, it was actually this book that inspired him to write the song…hence the line 'Just like that old man in the book by Nabokov'). I have classics, like Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, another story I know from the movies but have not attempted to appreciate through written words. There's Lucky by Alice Sebold, the same author of The Lovely Bones, one of my favorite fiction novels. There's The Kite Runner, a New York Times Bestseller from which I've only heard good things about and has had a strong influence on its readers. There is Once a Runner, a story about running that I am dying to read, mostly because I know it is deeply inspiring, and I am searching for anything and everything that will bring my feet to graze the asphalt of the streets again. The list goes on. Eat, Pray, Love, Jane Eyre, and a book I'm terrified to read, The Catcher in the Rye. It is a classic, but it's hauntingly depressing, and has influenced some readers to take drastic steps. Mark David Chapman, the man who assassinated John Lennon, had an obsession with the book, and was said to act out scenes from it on the day of Lennon's death. He even had a copy of the book on hand, and claimed himself to be Holden Caufield. As sickening as it may sound, it is because of this I am curious to see what is so powerful about this book that would cause not only Chapman, but other readers, to take such violence upon others.

Needless to say, the list will grow, and I am anxious to get my hands on every copy that is written on a page inside my daily planner. But first I must get through Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey, which needs to be read before my literature class next Monday. For the first time in a very long while, I am excited to read.

I came to England to find inspiration to write. I had hopes that I would gain a greater appreciation for literature. And since this is the first time I am really writing in 10 days, I guess I needed to read to find the inspiration to write. Looks like England is giving me just what I wanted.