When you read the description of Reyna Marder Gentin’s recent middle school book, My Name is Layla, you’ll see that there are two reasons I’m pleased to have her as a guest author today. The book features a young girl who has dyslexia. It’s an appropriate subject for this blog, a place where we all come because we want to talk about reading and books. I’ve included the summary of My Name is Layla after Gentin’s guest blog. Today, she’s going to talk about a subject close to my heart, her experiences using public libraries. Thank you, Reyna.

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Glimpses of Love at the Library

I’d like to say that books were what first drew me to the public library in the suburb where I grew up, but it wouldn’t be true. Really, it was geography. The library was exactly .7 miles from my parents’ house, and, more importantly, it was a straight shot–necessitating just a single left-hand turn at the bottom of my block. Although the main street was busier, there were sidewalks that ran all the way between my front door and the library entrance and traffic lights at every intersection. As a child of 9 or 10, my otherwise cautious parents deemed it safe for me to walk or ride my 3 speed hand-me-down blue Schwinn to this august destination. And while what started as an assertion of independence eventually morphed into a genuine appreciation for the world expansion that the books provided, the physical sanctuary of the library always remained a key part of the experience.

            I can remember that eureka moment when I realized that there were books at the library that I wouldn’t find at home that contained critical information for my development. It was 1976 and I was ten years old. My best friend and I were walking home from school on day when the red-haired boy from up the block accurately, if crudely, explained the facts of life to us. In under ten words.  At the time, I had no idea that such a synergistic placement of body parts was even a possibility. Neither did my best friend, and she wasn’t amused. Although I had two older teenage sisters, the specifics of the birds and the bees were totally unknown to me, and were, I assure you, a real shocker. I can still picture myself the next day, breathless from my speedy bike ride to the library, sitting on the floor in one of the back aisles of the children’s room as I verified this biological mystery. I didn’t dare check the book out on my library card, although my parents would have been fine with it. Instead, I tucked the book away, slightly misshelved, in case I needed to consult it again.

            As a teenager, the library’s allure shifted from a place of solitary searching–time spent reading alone, curled up on a comfortable chair–to become the unlikely hub of my social life. This sounds incredibly nerdy, I know, but it was anything but. Once again, the library’s geographic location played a huge role. This time, the starting point for the journey was not my parents’ house, but rather the campus of the Junior High and later the Senior High schools in my town, and I’d venture to the library three or four times a week after school let out. Located across a marshy swamp, the trek on foot or bike had a certain element of adventure.

            The library played a dual role–a quiet place for doing homework and achieving academic success in the uber-competitive school system, and as a cover for what was really going on underground. From seventh grade until graduation, hundreds of kids like me claimed to be at the library, while we actually escaped to the youth arts center built into the basement space below. It was there that every sort of expressive endeavor was conceived, from dance to drama to music to film to computer gaming. And along with all of these more lofty creative juices flowed the hormones and dramas of boys and girls in all their teenage wonder, figuring it out. It was paradise.

All in the shadow of the library, where that first knowledge of love was confirmed in a book that I could reach by a bike ride from my parents’ home — the parents and the home now long gone, but the library still there, doing its thing.

REYNA MARDER GENTIN lives with her husband and children in Westchester County, New York. Reyna’s first novel, Unreasonable Doubts, a romantic legal thriller inspired by her work as a public defender, was a finalist in the Women’s Fiction Writers Association Star Award for debut fiction and you can find it at bit.ly/UnreasonableDoubts. Reyna studies at The Writing Institute at Sarah Lawrence College and her short stories and personal essays have been published widely online and in print. You can find out more by visiting reynamardergentin.com.  

Social media links: 
Link to Twitter: https://twitter.com/reynagentin
Link to Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/reynamardergentin

• An inspiring middle grade novel about self-acceptance, resilience, and empathy
• Short fiction for tweens and teens dealing with dyslexia, learning differences, and any challenge of growing up
• A coming of age story featuring a dyslexic 8th grader that belongs in every middle school library

School will never be the same.

On the first day of eighth grade, thirteen year-old Layla has a pretty good idea of what’s in store for her–another year of awkward social situations, mediocre grades, and teachers who praise her good behavior but find her academic performance disappointing. Layla feels certain she’s capable of more, but each time she tries to read or write, the words on the page dance and spin, changing partners and leaving her to sit on the sidelines.

This year will be different in ways Layla could never have predicted. Her new English teacher, Mr. McCarthy, senses her potential. When he pushes her to succeed, Layla almost rises to the challenge before making a desperate choice that nearly costs her everything she’s gained. Will she be able to get back on track? And who can she count on to help her?

My Name is Layla by Reyna Marder Gentin. TouchPoint Press, 2021. ISBN 9781952816086 (paperback), 140p.