Greetings my lovelies,

The first book I remember is Curious George. I couldn’t tell you which adventure it was or exactly how old I was when I read it. I just remember that mischievous little monkey with an insatiable curiosity and a remarkable talent for getting himself into situations he had absolutely no business being in.

Honestly, not a bad way to begin a lifetime of reading. 😂

There was Dr. Seuss, of course, with the colorful illustrations, ridiculous creatures, bouncing rhymes, and words that were simply fun to say.

I remember Pippi Longstocking, that wonderfully unconventional girl who did things her own way, and Charlotte’s Web.

There were Nancy Drew mysteries and the Hardy Boys, where there was always another clue waiting around the corner.

Judy Blume came along, including Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret., and there was Beverly Cleary with Ramona, Beezus, and Henry Huggins.

When I started thinking about today’s prompt—the books that made me a reader—I immediately ran into a problem. I couldn’t remember them all. I started trying to pull individual titles out of memories that are decades old, and there were enormous blank spaces.

Then it occurred to me: of course I can’t remember them all. I read too damn many.

I Was a Library Kid

When I think about my childhood and books, my strongest memories aren’t necessarily individual covers or titles. I remember libraries.

If you were looking for me at school, there was a pretty good chance you’d find me in the school library, wandering the shelves and looking for something else to read. I wanted to get my hands on as many books as I could.

Reading wasn’t something adults had to coax me into doing because it was educational or good for me. 

Reading was my thing.

Outside of school, my mom would drive me to the library in Sussex, New Jersey. Sometimes we’d go to the library in Branchville instead. Eventually, I became old enough to walk to the Sussex library by myself, and I did.

I can picture that younger version of myself heading there knowing that rows and rows of stories were waiting on the other side of those doors. There was always something I hadn’t read yet, some new character I hadn’t met or some place I’d never visited except on a page.

And I certainly wasn’t walking home with one book tucked neatly under my arm. Oh, hell no. 😂 I’d check out five to ten books at a time and tear through them.

If it was a smaller book, I could finish it in a day. Something bigger might take me a week. Then I’d be ready for another one.

Give me somewhere comfortable to curl up, something to drink beside me, and a book in my hands, and I could read to my heart’s content.

I remember that quiet little world that forms around you when a book is really good—the weight of it in your hands, the soft sound of a page turning, your drink sitting nearby while you become increasingly oblivious to everything happening around you.

The room could disappear. The noise could disappear. For a little while, I could live somewhere else.

I didn’t need a reading challenge, a goal, or someone reminding me that I should read twenty minutes a day. I read because I loved it. When I finished my stack, I went looking for more.

Looking back, I wasn’t simply a kid who liked books.

I was a voracious reader.

Then the Books Grew Up With Me

As I got older, what I read changed. Curious George’s questionable decision-making eventually gave way to books considerably more complicated than a monkey getting himself into trouble.

I read 1984, Dune, Gone with the Wind, Lord of the Flies, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Outsiders, Of Mice and Men, and The Grapes of Wrath. I believe The Diary of Anne Frank was in there somewhere, too.

Some of these books I chose myself, while others were required reading for school. And required reading was its own peculiar experience because teachers possessed an almost supernatural ability to take an interesting story and make you wonder whether there was going to be a quiz about the symbolic significance of a chair sitting in the corner.

What did the author really mean?

I don’t know. Maybe the man just needed somewhere to sit. 😂

Still, those books stayed with me. Decades later, I remember 1984. I remember Lord of the Flies. I remember The Outsiders. I remember Steinbeck.

The stories had changed as I had changed. They dealt with poverty and injustice, power and prejudice, cruelty and survival. People made terrible decisions. Societies went horribly wrong. Characters didn’t always get neat, happy endings.

Books had become more than places to escape. They were also places to think, question things, and see lives completely different from my own.

School didn’t make me a reader, though. I was already one. Long before somebody handed me a required reading list, I was hanging around the school library and hauling five to ten books home from the public library because apparently taking one at a time was for amateurs. 😂

There Was a Library at Home, Too

Books weren’t only at school or at the public library. My mom had a library in our basement, and among those books were Stephen King novels.

I can’t remember exactly which ones I read back then. Maybe those titles will eventually shake loose from whatever dusty corner of my brain they’ve been hiding in, but I remember seeing those books there.

And can we appreciate for a moment that my mother’s Stephen King books lived in a basement library? Because apparently Stephen King wasn’t creepy enough on his own. He needed atmosphere. 😂

Books were simply part of my surroundings. They were at school, at the public library, and downstairs at home. There was always another story somewhere, and reading was woven into my everyday life in a way I didn’t really think about at the time.

It was just something I did.

Maybe I Never Really Lost My Love of Reading

There was a period in my adult life when I wasn’t reading nearly as much. For a while, I might have said that I lost my love of reading, but sitting here now and remembering all of this, I don’t think that’s what happened.

Maybe I never lost it at all.

I just stopped making as much room for it.

Life filled up with work, relationships, responsibilities, homes, animals, bills, and the thousand ordinary demands that pile up around adulthood without you noticing how much space they’re taking.

Eventually there were phones, social media, streaming, notifications, and the endless scroll competing for whatever attention remained.

Reading asks something different from us. It asks us to stay in one place for a while. It asks us to slow down enough to let another world form inside our imagination instead of having everything delivered to us instantly through a screen.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped doing that as often.

But apparently I never stopped loving books, because all I had to do was look around my own house.

Then I Looked at My Bookshelves

I have a library.

No, it isn’t the enormous rolling-ladder Beauty and the Beast library of my dreams, although don’t tempt me because I could absolutely get behind that. 😂 But I have shelves filled with books, and looking at them while writing this post made me realize that the evidence has been sitting in front of me all along.

There are Nora Roberts novels, including older paperbacks that have clearly lived some life right along with me. There are books about witches, magic, and spirituality. There are mysteries and murder, memoirs and personal growth, and stories that caught my attention for no more complicated a reason than I want to know what happens.

Some I’ve already read. Others are waiting for me.

My shelves also reminded me that I’ve never really needed to belong to one particular reading genre. I like what interests me. Give me mystery or magic, witches or romance. Give me something historical, something spiritual, complicated people, or a story that makes me think. Give me something strange enough that I need to keep reading simply to figure out what the hell is happening.

Which brings me to The Spellshop.

Excuse Me, Did That Woman Just Have FOUR ARMS?

I’m currently reading The Spellshop. I knew it was fantasy when I started it, so I understood that there would be magic and magical creatures. Fine. I was prepared.

Or so I thought.

Then a woman had four arms.

FOUR ARMS.

I sat there staring at the book thinking, Excuse me? Did that woman just have four fucking arms? 😂

Then came centaurs, winged cats, merhorses, and blue people. Every so often something else appears and I have another little What the hell am I reading? moment.

I tried explaining some of it to Ronnie, whose interpretation was basically Avatar meets Practical Magic.

Uh, no. Not even close. 😂

But the funny part is that I kept turning the pages. I wanted to know what happened next. I found myself wanting another chapter, then another, and wondering what bizarre thing this book was going to throw at me next.

That feeling was familiar.

It was the same curiosity that used to send me home from the library carrying a stack of books.

And Then Along Came The Shining

Today I finally really watched The Shining. Somehow, I have made it to 56 years old without actually sitting down and watching the whole thing.

Holy shit.

Almost immediately afterward, I wanted the book.

I want Stephen King’s version of the story. I want the details that couldn’t fit onto a screen, the thoughts inside the characters’ heads, and the atmosphere that builds slowly across pages. I want to know what King originally created before someone else interpreted it for a movie.

Then I thought about my mother’s basement library and those Stephen King books sitting on the shelves all those years ago. Now, decades later, I’m thinking about adding The Shining to my own library.

There’s something wonderfully full-circle about that.

Apparently I Have a TBR List Now

It isn’t only The Shining, either. I’ve built a list of books I want to read—a real to-be-read list. Apparently this reading thing is happening whether I formally announce it or not. 😂

I’m reading The Spellshop. I’m finding books I want next, adding titles to my list, and building my own little library. Most importantly, I’m craving stories again.

I don’t want to turn that into a productivity project. I don’t need to decide that I must read fifty or a hundred books in a year or start treating chapters like items on a checklist. That’s not how I fell in love with reading in the first place.

I read because I wanted to know what happened next. I read because I loved disappearing into another world. I read because sitting somewhere comfortable with something to drink and a book in my hands made me happy.

And it still does.

I’m Not Becoming a Reader

When I started talking about wanting to read more, I think part of me treated it like something new I wanted to bring into my life. Maybe I needed to become a reader again.

Then I remembered the school library. I remembered my mom driving me to Sussex and Branchville. I remembered getting old enough to walk to the library myself and coming home with five to ten books at a time. I remembered finishing a smaller book in a day and taking my time with the bigger ones.

I remembered curling up somewhere comfortable with a drink and reading until I was completely satisfied. I remembered my mom’s basement library and Stephen King sitting on those shelves.

Then I looked at the books sitting on my own shelves today.

I’m not trying to become someone who reads. I’m remembering that I already am one.

Maybe I didn’t lose my love of reading. Maybe life simply got louder than it for a while.

Because I’m not trying to come back to reading now. I’m already back. I’ve got books on my shelves, a growing TBR list, The Spellshop open and waiting for me, and apparently a date with Stephen King.

Somewhere inside this 56-year-old woman is still that Jersey girl who could walk into a library, come out carrying an armful of books, find herself a comfortable place, grab something to drink, and disappear for hours.

Give me somewhere cozy, something to drink, and a damn good book, and I’m perfectly content.

I’m reading again, and damn, I’ve missed this.

So now I want to hear from you.

What book made you a reader?

Was there one story you read until the cover nearly fell off?

Do you remember your childhood library?

Did your reading tastes change as you got older? Or were you like me—the kid who couldn’t possibly choose one favorite because you were too busy trying to read them all? 📚❤️