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The books read at a certain age, for me between 10 and 13 years old, can be permanently stamped on your psyche. I became a real reader at this age, with the loving and supportive help of two very literary teachers. Interestingly these fine ladies, upon retirement, took jobs at the local library. I can’t think of a better suited job for either of them, seeing as they introduced me to my own love of reading.
As a young girl I read everything I could get my hands on (sound familiar?) and read at the speed of lightning (again, any surprises there?). In my opinion reading begets reading. It’s The Neverending Story come to life – as soon as you finish one there is another hovering in the wings. You don’t want to stop, you might missing the next adventure. This is also the place in my life where reading became how I made sense of the world. When you are a young adult, navigating the confusing new currents of adolescence, processing the end of childhood and the anticipating the looming seriousness of the world of adults, fantasy has special something to offer. At a time when you feel most impotent and insignificant, confused and lost, stories of seemingly ordinary kids doing extraordinary things is a welcome escape. Who can forget poor Wart, who doesn’t even know that underneath all those skinny limbs and dirty clothes he’s a KING! It doesn’t get any better.
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