I’ve been more-or-less off several days celebrating my birthday with my family. I was sad to come back Monday and read about the death of Mary Higgins Clark.
I may not have been an early writer, but I was an early reader. I transitioned from young adult novels to adult novels in seventh grade. Mom was less than thrilled by this because my interests and hers seldom overlapped in terms of books, but we did both like mysteries.
I know, I know. Everyone considers Mary Higgins Clark the Queen of Suspense. My mother called her a mystery writer and that’s okay by me because it meant that I got an early introduction to Clark. Grandma or Mom, whoever bought the book, would read it first. If the second adult was in the midst of a book, I would get it second. Then whichever one of us was left would get it.
If you are guessing that I got my love of reading from my mom and grandmother, you’ve got part of it figured out. Grandpa read Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey. My Dad read nonfiction, history and anything to do with Texas, and Tom Clancy and John Grisham. I didn’t latch onto any of Grandpa’s books but I did wander off with a wide variety of Dad’s nonfiction. Sunday afternoons, I would go home from church with my grandparents, do my homework and then read. They were often reading too although I did notice that reading often led to snoring.
The funniest thing now is to see my son reading Dad’s Tom Clancy novels and sometimes his friends even ask to borrow them. I’m feeling the need to go downstairs and look for Mom’s books. I’d be surprised if I don’t have a few Mary Higgins Clark novels down there.