I can vividly see the book now, even roughly fifteen years later. The book had a hard cover that had been lovingly worn down to that soft material that painted cardboard becomes under the insistent touch of children begging for one more read. Bulging out of the thin, stained, soft-worn cover was two enormous eyes that constantly rolled around, surveying the room. Even after years of abuse, those eyes never even had a scratch (or atleast it seemed that way). My mom (as patiently as a mother of three possibly could) read those 32 pages an uncountable amount of times through all three of our childhood… Which is impressive, considering Barney and Friends was banned in my house once my brothers moved on and just before I was old enough to catch on– just to save that poor woman’s sanity. But, there was something irresistible about the book. The bug puns, clever word play, and the way it seemed so unique to us. I could never imagine another family reading this, dying laughing at the punchline… Other books I knew were readily available to every kid, but this was one of the few things I felt I had the advantage for.. This book was mine. So, naturally, every  character was played out in very specific voices and specific lines were left the space of silence needed to react to what we (I) knew was coming each time. Regardless, I read that book for years; then again when I re-found it at a time where I needed comfort. The absolute ridiculous characters within the book were so spot on to me as a child. I remember saying my grandmother looked like one of the characters (a particularly gaudy bug), who coincidentally did not think it was as enlightened as I felt– nor as funny as my parents seemed to find it. So this book taught me not only the art of a true mystery and word play, but it also started my lifelong journey to figure out exactly how tact works.

When I was younger I was not very good at reading. I was so bad at it that my younger sister was able to learn to read before I did. I even remember early into my schooling I had to go to someplace after school where they taught me the basics. In elementary school there were classes to help children who were testing below the average testing scores to get their scores up, I was put into the one for reading. My elementary school continued to place me into these classes until after the third grade. As much as everyone tried to raise my reading level, I never really saw the point. For the most part, reading was just something boring that I was never any good at, so I never really bothered trying to do it outside whatever assignments that my teachers made me do. It wasn’t until I was assigned to read The Bad Beginning in the third grade that I realised that books could actually be interesting.
Lemony Snicket’s narration was very different from anything that I had read before. None of the children’s books I was told to read had such an expressive narrator. As far as I had known, third person narrators were void of personality, just faceless voices that described what happened to the main characters. The way that Snicket told the story of the Baudelaire orphans that was also wrapped in the story of the character Snicket just entertained me for some reason. Another thing that attracted me was the story’s focus on three children and not just one child. If I was reading a story and found that I did not care for the main character’s personality (I felt that most of them were really bland), what was the point of continuing with the rest of it. With A Series of Unfortunate Events I was given three main characters with distinct personalities, if I did not like them there were still two more to relate to (however, this was never a problem the Baudelaires). I think what appealed to me the most is how morbid the story could get at times. It did not feel like it was a book for little kids like One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish; it felt like a book for older kids.

The first book that I can recall being read to me was, Love You Forever by Robert Munsch. I’m not sure what it was about this book, but I felt the need to make my parents read this book to me every night. In my opinion, this was probably the first book that I learned to read. The reason that I have to say “probably” is due to the fact that my parents seem to feel that, seeing as I was only 3 years old, I wasn’t actually reading, but had simply memorized the book from the multitude of times that I had heard the book read to me. The problem that I have is that when I read the book aloud to them, I was reading the correct words for the correct pages. It was, however, a picture book, so I could have been associating words with certain pictures, but even that seems like a bit of a stretch for a three year old.

The first chapter book that I can recall falling in love with would definitely be Matilda by Roald Dahl. It was recommended to me by my school librarian at some point during elementary school (I would suppose somewhere between 1^st and 2^nd grade), and this book swept me away. I suppose I became so infatuated with the book because I felt as though Matilda was a very interesting character. We were both rather introverted readers, and for that, I felt as though she was relatable. Furthermore, she had telekinetic powers that she used to get back at her enemies, which made her that much cooler to me. Reading this book sent me into a phase where I was reading every Roald Dahl book that I could get my hands on – Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, James and the Giant Peach, The BFG, just to name a few. I think that it was books like those that made me develop the passion for reading that I have today.

Frog and Toad Are Friends holds a spot in my heart. It was just so easy to read for me and the characters always made me laugh. They both reminded me of myself as a child because at times I could be lazy (like Toad) and sometimes I was mischievous (like frog). I recommend this book to children because the writing is fun and the pictures go along with text very well. Even as an adult as I read this book it still manages to make me laugh!

The Night I Disappeared: My First Novel Obsession
Truthfully, the first book I remember being very proud I read on my own was The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I was in first grade and very interested in how a man without a head could steer a horse. Although this is my first vivid memory of reading, it wasn’t until I was twelve and picked up a book called The Night I Disappeared by Julie Reece Deaver that I realized how much I loved reading and writing stories. What captured me as a preteen was the mystery and use of suspense within the novel, along with an ending that’s worthy of being an M. Night Shyamalan twist.
This story broke many rules I thought existed, teaching me there are no rules in writing, only patterns. These patterns are what we become accustomed to and although they exist for reasons, breaking these patterns (and doing it well) is a sign of a great writer. When we shift our perception of what a story is, a door is opened that gives us freedom to interpretation and exercises our imagination. Mine was shifted by the author’s choice in keeping a big event in the character’s life a secret til the end of the novel. I learned good storytelling is knowing when to leave bread crumbs and when to expose information. It balances a fine line of how much you want the audience to know and what you want them to learn throughout the story. An author knows the ins and outs of their character, but deciding when the audience should learn these things shifts the way the story is told as well as a character is perceived.
The novel also taught me twist endings and deaths at the end of a story can be done well, there’s danger in throwing information at your reader that wasn’t hinted at or cohesive to the rest of the story. Although you don’t predict the ending it still has to be plausible, not only finishing the story, but also enhancing it. When a writer breaks the contract of expectation with the reader, there must be a reason or else the reader loses trust in the author breaking their suspension of disbelief. These ideas were instilled in me at a young age, but it took more reading and writing of my own to realize them. The Night I Disappeared became a foundation for my future readings by making me subconsciously aware of the art of “the unknown” within a story.

It’s difficult to pinpoint the first memories I have of reading a book or even having a book read to me directly, and it’s probably more correct to say that I have a nebulous chunk of memories all involving my earliest reading experiences. With that in mind, it’s hard to say anything that involves concrete facts. What I do remember is my earliest feelings about the things I read and the emotional attachment I built around those first books. Most of the books I read early on I think I likely have more attachment to in terms of the situations surrounding them, but the earliest book I remember being read to me was Where the Wild Things Are.

I’m more than certain that other books were read to me before this and that I tried my hand at reading other books myself, but I think those memories stick out the most in my head because they were the first times that I felt a book really resonated with me and made me feel something personal. On a purely surface level, it was visually interesting, different than other picture books. The art was textured and colorful, but was understandable and filled the pages.

In terms of content, I think Where the Wild Things Are stood out because it wasn’t afraid to address the actual feelings of children. Its protagonist was a child who seemed to have actual feelings, and not always of the positive variety. It felt genuine, like it was willing to give children their own agency and self-knowledge. Many of the books that were popular for parents to read for children like the The Berenstain Bears didn’t seem to have that level of understanding and instead came across as being written to children instead of for them.