How I became a Bookaholic
by Marissa Meyer.
Some of my earliest true memories are of my brother and I climbing into my parents’ king-size bed on either side of my Mom and cuddling against her as she read “Black Beauty” and “The Legends of King Arthur” and a great many Dr. Seuss books—how I felt for the Sneeches! How I understood Yertle the Turtle! How I despised those goons who only walked North and South and wouldn’t compromise when their paths collided! (My four-year-old self questioned, why doesn’t one just go under the other?)
I don’t remember learning to read. At some point it seems that I simply could. And I did. I hungered for stories the way some kids hunger for cardboard forts or chocolate chip cookies. (Okay, I hungered for those things too… but only so I could eat cookies in my fort while enjoying a great book.)
Perhaps what enticed me most about books is that they were an infinite gift. There were always more stories to read, more adventures to explore, more characters to befriend. I could slip into Narnia one day and fight dragons on Mt. Doom the next and then become a pioneer on the prairie or a pirate on Treasure Island, and on and on and on. Books never grew tiresome, and I never ran out of them.
To this day, both the great blessing and the great curse of being a Bookaholic seems to be that there are always, always more stories to fall in love with.