The very first chapter book I read on my own was Ramona Quimby, Age 8. It was a gift from my grandmother for my eighth birthday.
I arranged my first-semester schedule in college around a particular class for one reason: a private tour of the library’s special collections was on the syllabus.
After that class (Which never did have that tour of the collection. Yes, I am still disappointed.), I switched my major from math to comparative literature.
I keep boxes strong enough to move books under my bed. (After helping us move three times in as many years, my brother-in-law declared he will no longer pick up any box I’ve labeled “BOOKS.”)
I have been a card-carrying member of nine different libraries (so far).
I am a mother to three readers-in-training, so at least 2/3 of the books I read are of the picture variety.
I make the aforementioned children read the book before we watch the movie. I am probably raising them to be insufferable snobs in movie theaters, but the thrill of watching them discover Hogwarts (and Narnia and Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory) with all the details of the book is worth it.
My brother and I shared books as kids, sometimes trading back and forth each chapter. This led to some of the most intense fights of my childhood, a scar on my forehead, and many of my fondest memories.
I overuse parentheses.
I love books. I love reading them, talking about them, looking at them, thinking about them, buying them, and listening to them. Lest you think I am completely one-dimensional, I also love hiking, board games, marching bands, and college football (though I have been known to mix books with any of the four when possible).