Confessions of a Bookaholic

My infatuation with books was instigated around the ripe age of four years old by the most qualified teachers available: my mom and Dr. Seuss. The first book I ever read on my own was "There's a Wocket in My Pocket!", and it's still a book I treasure. In the early years of school, kindergarten and first grade, most books were read to us. I didn't like their books, so instead, I frequently skimmed my sister's vast collection for a story that would catch my eye. After the story time era finally ended, second grade arrived and with it came new opportunities thanks to a plethora of books offered for Accelerated Reading(A.R.).

When A.R. was first introduced to us, most of my fellow classmates moaned and groaned until the cows came home. I pretended to hate it because everyone else did, but I was secretly ecstatic that independent reading was mandatory. Rather than seeing it as a satanic program that unjustly tried to force me to read, I saw it as a blessing in disguise. The elementary years were filled with Lemony Snicket, Judy Blume, Roald Dahl, J.K. Rowling, and Laura Ingalls Wilder. It was during these years that my inner bookworm flourished. I thrived on the feeling of becoming completely engrossed in a book, escaping reality and being thrown into an unknown universe full of words and bewilderment. That feeling dictated what books I chose to read; if I didn't get that feeling within the first 15 pages, I would put it back on the shelf. I still choose books that way. To put it simply, A.R. played a monumental role in my love of books. A.R. carried on for several more glorious, nerdy years with a copious amount of novels thrown in there. It finally came to an end in 7th grade.

In junior high, my reading taste evolved and matured. I began indulging myself in young adult literature such as Looking For Alaska by John Green, one of my absolute favorite books. My best friend, also a huge book nerd, started introducing me to wonderful, emotionally draining books such as the one previously mentioned. For that, I am eternally grateful. I discovered a newfound interest in books that made you think about your life completely differently by the end of it. I think that's what makes a great novel. In my opinion, if you are left speechless, lost in thought, and reevaluating your life, you've just read a quality piece of work. Maybe that's just me.

I have just started high school, so my taste and sophistication in literature hasn't really changed. Through the years, I think every experience with books has influenced my view on reading. There isn't one single thing that determined why I have such an appreciation and adoration for books, but rather several events that played an equally important role.  If my mom hadn't've taught me to read prior to school, I may not have the same attitude toward books. If A.R. wasn't a requirement in school, I may not have become as big of a bookworm as I am or read as many books as I have. If my best friend had never recommended books written in that twisted, mind boggling way, I probably would not have the same taste in books. Like all things in life, all of my past experiences impacted the way I think about reading now.