Nathan Bransford poses a great question at his blog today:
What is the first book you remember reading? As in, the first one you read on your own?
Mine was one of my Little Golden Books, I think
Tootle but perhaps it was
The Saggy Baggy Elephant or maybe
The Poky Little Puppy. I'm not consciously aware of when or how, exactly, I started reading, as it was sort of an organic process for me, but I vividly recall the night it dawned on me that hey, I can read! My parents thought I was "reading" out loud from memory, until I tried to sound out a word phonetically and asked for help. They were so excited, they kept me up past bedtime and made me read several more.
Looking back, I'm grateful my parents thought reading was a big deal. I've aimed to pass that importance on to my children, and in this high-tech day and age, 2 of my 3 kids turned out to be bookworms with well-used library cards. (The one who isn't has ADD and finds reading "boring"... which would break my heart, but he loves educational TV and can quote facts he picks up verbatim, so I've accepted that's how he learns.)
I used to spend entire days reading. Now that I'm a writer, I don't have as much time to read other authors as I'd like. I make time when I can, as input fuels the output, while the second best pleasure behind getting lost in my stories is to get lost in those of another. I can trace it all back to that night my parents made me read half the books on my shelf. Thanks, Mom & Dad. And thanks, Mr. Bransford, for spurring this morning's trip down memory lane.