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 ...view middle of the document...
I fell in love instantly. I knew exactly where the book was in my elementary schoolâ€™s library. Every other week for over three years I would walk in, take a sharp left, slide around the study table and walk straight back to the storyâ€™s resting place when its was not nestled between my hands. The card inside was dominated with my name on both sides making it blatantly obvious that even though the book belonged to the library, it was mine. Even through this obsessive reading, I still was not considered a reader in my motherâ€™s eyes, and since I viewed my mother as the ultimate reader, polishing off one book a week at least, I was desperate for her to crown me with the coveted title of reader.
For my fourteenth birthday my aunt in Portland, Oregon sent me a book series entitled Alanna by Tamora Pierce. The four book series centered on a young redheaded girl named Alanna and took place in the Renaissance who disguises herself as a boy so that she can become a knight. I was immediately drawn to the story but was still apprehensive about actually picking up a book and finishing it; especially when I could just be watching television, but that all changed one month later.
My mom was dragging me along on a business road trip to Bardstown, Kentucky to help organize and throw a major retirement party for a highly respected colleague. It was on the drive down that I cracked open the first book since Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It was the first book of the series my aunt had sent me for my birthday. I was consumed, I could not put it the book down. I would sneak away, desperately ripping the book out of my pocket, to try and to read a few more sentences so that I could discover more about my heroine and her world, before I heard my mother call for me, beckoning me to return.
We were staying at a local bed and breakfast nearby and the all day party had all been all wrapped up. After...