My love of reading and my hatred of writing is an omnipresent force that haunts and delights me daily. One of my favorite moments in life is when you reading the final paragraph of a great book. Completion comes, you close the book, breathe out a sigh of contentment as you hug it to your chest, contemplating the questions that have fallen in front of you by the mastermind behind the book. The satisfaction and pride associated with completing such a daunting task is the greatest feeling no matter what age.
The reading gene was encrypted into my DNA was before I was even conceived. My mother is the textbook definition of a reader. Some of my most vivid memories are from taking trips with her across the country. She would be sitting next to me, unmoving for the entire duration of the trip immersed in whatever book she decided to bring. My journey with reading started when I was four and my grandmother forcing me to sit down and focus on the “Hooked on Phonics”. I never bonded with that method of learning, but through it all I eventually learned to read.
It was March of 1993 in Tampa, Florida when I read my first book. My mother’s boyfriend was a baseball player at spring training for the St. Louis Cardinals and we were tagging along. My always-prepared mother had brought a bag full of activities to keep me entertained while we waited in the stands. It was that day that I read my first book all by myself, cover to cover. Go, Dog, Go by Dr. Seuss became a prized possession in my world that day; and I still have the original copy that I learned from years ago.
Though I had finally grasped reading I hardly would have called myself a reader. Despite my mother’s avid attempts to push Anne of Green Gable’s and Little Women onto me, I just could not find anything that piqued my interest. Until I came across Roahl Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory; it was the first real book I had ever completed. I fell in love instantly. I knew exactly...