My love of reading started early; so early, in fact, I can’t even remember learning to read. I had my nose stuck in a book most of my childhood, devouring every title that we had in our den, handed down to me from my two older sisters. My mother would tell me to go clean my room, only to find me an hour later in my messy room, engrossed in a book.
I remember being horrified that Persephone let all the evil out into the world, bewitched by enchanted princesses who danced the night away, and amazed by the Chinese fable about the boy who could hold the ocean in his mouth. When I graduated to novels, I cried for days after finishing books such as Where the Red Fern Grows and Watership Down, feeling like I’d lost actual friends. In my mind through the power of books, I rode the Black Stallion, discovered Narnia, lived with Laura Ingalls in the Little House on the Prairie, and uncovered the magic of The Secret Garden. Continue reading