I remember resting my head on my mom’s shoulder as she slowly read through my favorite book titled Wacky Wednesday by Dr. Seuss. She pointed to all the pictures as she read through each line in a spirited voice. And every night we read the same book, at the same time, in the same comfort space of my bed. As I grew up, I remember always wanting to be an adult and pretended to read through these massive and heavy books that I would see my parents reading. They had books mostly on murder mysteries and crime that were thick in pages and pages of courts scenes and screaming lawyers. My dad had bought books all the time about boring politics and tedious historical events that went on and on for 585 pages. However, my dad read through them and learned and became the intelligent man he is today. So those books that could act as a paperweight, in the end, did their justice.

            I found that in first grade I couldn’t help myself from reading The Magic Tree House books. I still could picture in my head all those adventures that the simple text took me on. I started to love reading. Once I became a little more advanced, I started to get into the Nancy Drew Mysteries. And still to this day, those books were my absolute favorite. But aside from reading, I don’t remember doing a lot of writing in my early years and a kid. I did write a tiny informational book in first grade in which we were told to research our favorite animal. But we never really started to write until fifth grade. I do remember, however, that I would “try” to keep journals and write in them every night. But my sister would always find them and scream my secrets at the top of the banister for the world to hear…so no more journals.

            I would always see the kids that I thought were “good readers”. How could I tell? Well, while I was reading Judy B Jones, they were reading Harry Potter book 7. And I never was upset but instead laughed at them with my friends. Was I wrong? Yes. But maybe it was pure jealousy of their advanced reading skills. 

            When I found time to read, (which as I got older was less and less) I loved reading on my bed. It was a comfy spot where no one would bother me. I then realized that I lost interest in reading. I hated it. I could never focus and the stories became boring. Until one day in Marshall’s.  I glanced up and saw the Twilight book; yes I was team Edward.  I started this book when I went home and could not put it down. I even pretended to be sick and skip school just so I could start the third book to the series. And better yet, as soon as I was done with all the books, I cried and cried and I never wanted to read again. As pathetic as this was, I realized why I didn’t like to read. It was because I fell to far in to all of these stories. I would close the book after finishing and not open another for a couple of months. I never understood how my grandma would read a book cover-to-cover and then open a new one ten minutes later. I felt as if I was disrespecting the book I had just read; the one that had impacted me so much. And of course with this negative, overdramatic experience of reading, having teachers throw boring texts at me made it even worse. I didn’t get the point of reading something that didn’t effect how you felt or thought.  And really in high school I hit an all time low with reading, as I really didn’t read much of anything. Which obviously impacted my writing skills.  If I could, I would go back and try to make up all the lost literary skills I missed out on. I would keep that journal that my sister corrupted and I would write every day. I feel like I would be more open-minded, more accepting of a bigger imagination. But today can be where it starts. Where I become to re-learn what I had once had. A passion for reading and writing.