My First All-Nighter (of Many)

(Makeup for December 22^nd)

            Yes, I enjoyed my free sandwich. I chose the smoked sausage, by the way. And no, I’m not going to apologize for taking some time off from writing on my blog so I could (a) enjoy the holidays, (b) recover from being sick, (c) take some time to actually read something that I wanted to, (d) spend time playing with my wife and kids, or (e) all of the above. My neglect was purposeful. Good, now that that rant is done, I can move on.

           A few days ago, I stayed up late reading—1 a.m. or so. I’ve done it a few times on this break, and it reminded me of the first time I stayed up all night to finish a book.

As far back as I can remember, as a kid, I had always been allowed to stay up and read for half an hour after bedtime, as long as I stayed in my bed. It wasn’t too long before I started to push those limits. Every once in a while, when we lived in Arkansas, after Mom had turned out the lights, I would quietly sneak into the family room where she and Dad would be watching M.A.S.H., and I would quietly listen or bring another book to read (in the light). Even back then, when I was five, I knew the cues for an episode to be wrapping up, so I would make it back to my room without anyone the wiser. Yes, this is a confession.

My strategies changed after we moved to Las Vegas. You see, there was no way to sneak to where the TV was without being seen or heard (stupid doorway beads). And so I took to reading by flashlight. When that was discovered and confiscated, I would simply block the crack at the bottom of the doorway with a blanket and turn the light back on so I could plow through another chapter of Swiss Family Robinson or the Hollywood movie monster books I would check out from the school library. There was a reason why I was the runner up for the base library reading challenge that summer.

             However, it wasn’t until sixth grade, living in Japan, where I truly became so wrapped up in a book at night that I had literally could not sleep, could not put it down until I had finished it: The High King by Lloyd Alexander, a book I still hold in reverence today.

You see, my reading (and social studies) teacher at Yokota East Elementary School had my reading group reading nothing but award winners; if it didn’t have a Newbery or Caldecott sticker on the cover, it didn’t count for class. (See my post about this hard reading lesson if you want more details.) On that account, Mom had recently picked up a handful of sticker-bearing titles at the book fair, and I hadn’t had the chance to read all of them yet, as I was more into my sports trivia and other nonfiction at the time.

Then one night I was looking for something new, and I had my whole half hour ahead of me. Of course I didn’t want to go to sleep, so I perused the backs of the new paperbacks stacked on top of my desk. Thinking back, this pile also included Dear Mr. Henshaw by Beverly Cleary, From the Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L. Konigsburg, Johnny Tremain by Esther Forbes, and a few other wonderful works I eventually came to enjoy. But on this particular night, I selected the book with the dude holding a sword on it. Who doesn’t love fighting monsters? And so around 8:15 pm I began.

I don’t remember which of my various parent-avoiding lights-out strategies I employed that night, but I remember stretching out on my Major League Baseball bedspread and shivering at the thought of the Huntsmen of Annuvin and the unkillable Cauldron-born chasing someone—chasing me—as I raced with Taran, Prince Gwydion, Eilonwy, and their companions across the land to find some way to defeat Arawn, Death Lord. I had not read the first four books in the series, and I was only vaguely familiar with the characters as Disney had portrayed them in that horrible animated version of The Black Cauldron. All I knew was that I was trapped in this book and couldn’t escape until the last page had been read.

I got the extra blanket from under my bed. Brown and fraying, it served as my hiding place from the Huntsmen and Cauldron-born—in my imagination, some of the scariest dudes in all of literary bad guy-dom.

I think it was around four in the morning when I finally closed the book, sighed in relief because I was satisfied with how most of the novel ended (I’m not revealing any spoilers), but also because I could now climb off my bed and relieve my bladder of the pee I had been holding in because I didn’t want to miss any action. It wasn’t until my dad tried waking me up the next morning for school that I realized that I had literally stayed up (almost) all night to start and finish a book.

Since then I have done it many times, both for books that were well worth it, and for those that disappointed me enough to throw them across the room and crack their bindings. What a geek!

And as I type this last bit to my post, I look over and see a stack of books I got for Christmas added to the pile I brought home to read from my classroom, and I debate. Which one should I stay up for now? Hmmm….

Many of you might conclude that I should have learned my lesson. I guarantee that I have: every once in a while reading is worth sacrificing sleep (and consciousness the next day). Read on! If you haven’t read The High King or any of the Chronicles of Prydain, repent. Stop what you are doing immediately and go find it. If you can’t dig up a copy of The Book of Three (the first in the series), let me know and I can hook you up. It’s one of my all-time favorite fantasy series.