When I was four years old, I decided I wasn’t ever going to learn to read. It was stupid and I didn’t see the point of it. At least, that was what I told my parents outside of Barnes and Noble one day. To tell the truth, some twelve years and countless books later, I already knew how to read. I was reluctant to let my parents in on that fact because I thought it would spell the end of a staple of my pre-literate childhood: the bedtime story. Every night, I would hear stories about amazing people and far-off places from the warmth and safety of my own room. If I admitted that I could read by myself, the bedtime stories might cease. The thought of losing that time, often the best part of my day, was enough to drive me to pretend that letters were still squiggles on a page. …show more content…
I fell in love. The ancient castle and bright swirls of color on the cover held my attention as few things could at that age. After school, I ran to my parents and told them that I actually did know how to read and that I was sorry for lying but could I have that book please? They were considerably less shocked than I had anticipated. The Harry Potter series marked the beginning of my enduring love for reading. I adored everything about it, from the characters to the classes to the possibility of a magic world lying just out of sight. People often deride children’s literature as simplistic or unimportant, but those spellbinding books laid the foundation for my enjoyment of more meaningful literature. In a few short years I transitioned from refusing to pick up a book to sneaking a flashlight under the covers so I could read Pride and Prejudice for the third time. As Harry grew, so did