Reading books has always been a lovely, seductive escape for me. It takes me to unknown places, introduces me to characters I love as well as hate and frequently feeds my imagination with billowing swells of ideas.
When I was 11 or 12, I had to have my tonsils removed. I was afraid of the hospital, afraid of being separated from my parents, but once I was shown the children’s ward library, my fears immediately shifted to elation. The library had the entire series of Nancy Drew, girl detective! With so many books to read, how could I leave so soon?
In young adulthood, I read only non-fiction. After graduating from college, it was as if my stores of acquired knowledge seemed small and insignificant. The more I read, the more I wanted to read.
Now I like a mix, fiction, non-fiction, even throwing in the occasional fantasy. Oh yes, and don’t forget some biographies and Western civilization textbook history. I’m always up for learning more history.
My love of reading and my curious nature are one of those perpetual chicken-or-egg questions. Which came first? Does it matter? Probably not. My curiosity and love of reading sustain and impel one another.