As far back as I can recall -- far back into my early childhood -- from the moment I began to experience what printed words did to me -- I loved to read. One of my teachers in elementary school [Grade Two] even told my mother, in one of those parent-teacher interviews, that she did not believe I read the amount of books I claimed to read. I was devastated when my mother informed me of this -- because the truth is, I was reading even more than my teacher was aware of. And I still do it today -- approaching my [dare I say it] 50th birthday.
But WHY am I this way?
Why are YOU this way?
If you are frequenting this Bookpuddle blog you are probably an insatiable reader, too.
Why do we do it?
I am thankful that neither of my parents discouraged my early reading habits, but neither can I look to them for inspiration. Neither of them were "readers" per se. Nor were any of my siblings.
I do recall how much I looked forward to my mother faithfully reading Bible stories to me when I was a child, at bedtime -- and if I were to extrapolate upon my thoughts at the time, I think I would have been saying to myself, "Wow! When I am able to do this on my own, I am going to go hog-wild over it!"
Something happens to me when I read, that does not happen when I watch movies. And I have found that when people get to know me, they too, sometimes acquire a passion for reading that they never previously had. As though it is a bit infectious.
But the reason I myself acquired that same passion, so early on, remains a bit of a mystery to me.
And so tonight I ask the question of you. Was your own passion for reading something that you acquired later on in life? Or are you like me, and can not really recall a time when the picking up of a book never appealed to you?