But it didn't.
The books that were formative in my early reading life - the ones that kept the spark for reading alive within me - happened simultaneously.
The first was my discovery of the Goosebumps series by R.L. Stine.
It was the first time in my life that my decisions as a reader (and probably as a person) mattered to the outcome of the story. Who cared that nine out of ten times I chose the wrong turn and died? I was making the story happen. I was in control.
I think this power was my first taste of what it was like to be a writer. Suddenly, I wasn't just along for the ride, I was orchestrating it.
The second discovery of my young readership happened entirely because of my mother. When I was a child, my mother signed me up for a monthly reader program. Basically, every month a new 60-90 page novel would arrive at my doorstep. They were all related to animals (though I no longer remember the name of the club or even if they still exist. This was the 90s, after all). Rescuing animals, taking care of animals, learning about new animal species.
And I dutifully read every story - cover to cover - before the next one arrived in the mail.
At the time, I was just reading cute animal stories. But now that I'm older, I realize that I was learning how to foster a life-long love for reading. I flew through the books, one month after another, and was always excited to pick up the next one.
My mother was a mastermind. From Potter to the book club, she made sure that I was going to love reading all different kinds of literature.
And it was due to this that I wrote. Because the time between me finishing the last book, and prior to receiving the next in the series, I had to do something to keep myself occupied.
Yep. I wrote.
Photo Credits:
Goosebumps book cover from: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/125592.Tick_Tock_You_re_Dead_
Puppy and duck picture from: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/121597258661438479/
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