I’m fairly certain that I have been an avid reader since the day I learned that letters could make words and words could make sentences which all together became paragraphs and stories. I have vivid memories of piling as many picture books as I could possibly carry in my arms and dumping them on my mother, demanding that she read them all to me instantly, eventually memorizing her words enough to match them to the written ones on the page. As I grew older, my parents continued to foster this love of books and soon I was never without one. To this day, I’m uncomfortable leaving the house without at least one book in my bag.
From a very young age, my favorite outings were always to the bookstore, where I would choose two books—one for me to read and one for my dad to read to me, as he did each night when he came home from work all the way up until I started high school. He and my brother would jokingly disparage me if I took more than two days to finish a book, and I was always putting off chores and other tasks until “the end of this chapter.” The librarians at my local library all knew me by name, and I thought it a special privilege that I never needed to bring my library card with me to check out my weekly stack of books as a result.
Needless to say, reading and books have always been a part of my life. This early strong immersion has never faded or dissipated and has fostered a keen and discerning eye for good writing and strong narrative. I’m beyond excited to be somehow involved, no matter how minimally, in the process that gives life to these things, these books that have such a strong effect on how I think and view the world.