A Journey Of Words: How Reading Made Me A Writer by Suma Subramaniam

When I was little, my family did not travel far and wide for vacations. But my parents made every extra coin count when it came to buying books and affording the library membership. The long established British and Rotary club libraries in Bengaluru—my hometown in India—were too expensive. Somy dad took me on his bicycle to the much more affordable State Central Library where I would read and write.

I would sit on the companion seat mounted on the front of his bicycle. Watching bikes, motorcycles, autorickshaws, buses, and trucks zip past us, I felt the wind on my face all the way through the bustling streets of the city.  It took us nearly an hour-and-a-half to get to the library almost every Sunday. Once there, I wandered into a magical book garden amidst the shelves in the library. When I was done exploring, I borrowed the books and put them into a yellow cloth bag. Appa tied the heavy bag to the companion backseat of the bicycle with a jute rope, and we rode home.

With a book in my hand, I traveled the world. The stories took me to places I’d never been. They provided me a safe and comfortable seat in a world of words—the London of Shakespeare, Arthur Conan Doyle, and Charles Dickens; the Neverland of Peter Pan; the River Heights of Nancy Drew; the magical English coast of Famous Five; the fairytale worlds of Cinderella and Snow White; the Persia of Arabian Nights; the France, Italy, and Mediterranean Islands of The Count of Monte Cristo; the Missouri of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Then, there were the familiar Indian stories that reminded me that there’s no place like home—the Malgudi of R.K. Narayan’s books, and the folk tales from Amar Chitra Katha comics that my parents bought me at train and bus stations. They transported me to historical eras, and magical realms of the heavens, the earth, and the netherworld.

When I sat on the red-oxide floor of my small apartment with a story, I left the realities of the world behind and read. In the background, I knew people were walking by, the vegetable vendor yelled proudly about his fresh produce and catch of the day, sparrows chirped out the window, and steam rose off the pressure cooker in the kitchen. A scooter honked. An autorickshaw rumbled. A cow mooed. The phone rang. Someone made an announcement in a loudspeaker. But I paid no attention to them. 

Reading kept me turning pages like an invitation to experience the world without leaving the warmth of my home and family. It let me wonder and imagine gods, goddesses, stars, animals, birds, magical creatures, and mystery. It gave me a window into people and places I’d never seen or visited before. It helped me find my way into the world.

The habit stayed with me as I grew, although making time to read became more challenging with other distractions. When I became an adult, reading time came with other trade-offs. I saw five common career paths that trended in my family – engineer, doctor, lawyer, teacher, and banker. I didn’t know then that writing could be a viable career. Like everyone else in the family, I took up what was considered “practical” and earned degrees in computer science and management. It was only years later that I made a foray into writing.

Fast-forward to many decades later now, as a children’s and young adult author, I read every day. I read about cultures other than my own. I read diverse books.  I notice the nuances and details of communication in the work. I take note of the author’s descriptions of the character’s clothes, gestures, expressions, culture, and setting. I reflect on the choice of words, voice, imagery, the language, and the wordplay. I read to study the craft elements in writing.

Writing helps me process life’s realities better. Stories make me recall and relive memories and moments from my childhood. Hanging on to a book keeps me going. I imagine seeing children like my younger self as protagonists and heroines discovering the power of their voice, doing big and little things to make the world a better place for everyone.  

As a writer, I have good days and bad days.  I create joyful, uplifting stories and worlds that might fade and diminish if we don’t write about them. Some days, the ideas dry up on the page. Words fail to flow out of me. At such times, reading opens my mind and makes it possible for me to string words again. 

Like writing, reading, too, is a solitary pursuit. It gives me permission to explore the inner sanctum of my imagination. The longing for my childhood home more than eight thousand miles away has morphed into a desire for a deeper experience of stories that resonate with me.

I can travel back there when I create my own books—through the meaningful relationships in Namaste Is A Greeting and A Bindi Can Be…, the adventure with fantastical animalsfrom Indian folklore in The Runaway Dosa, M.S. Subbulakshmi’s melodic voice of social justice in She Sang For India, Kaveri’s journey along the river she’s named after in My Name Is Long As A River, and the spunky Malar’s sustainable living in the fictional coastal village of Pori in V. Malar – Greatest Host Of All Time. 

I can’t read all the books in the world, but I can strive to read as many as I can.  In the process, I might learn and create something beautiful of my own. 

Suma Subramaniam is the author of several children’s books based on STEM and STEAM topics as well as India and Indian heritage including the most recent V. MALAR- GREATEST HOST OF ALL TIME, illustrated by Archana Sreenivasan (Candlewick Press, 2024). She earned her MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. When she’s not writing, she’s volunteering and blogging about children’s books. Suma lives in Washington State with her husband and a dog who will do anything for Indian sweets and snacks. Find her online at sumasubramaniam.com.