Good Essay On Reading Inspires At A Young Age

How far back do our memories reach? Mine reaches as far back as my first experience with books, at the tender age of three. I remember making up stories to match the pictures until, finally, a year later, I was able to recognize the real words. This began a personal journey of reading that pushed me to become the learned person I am today. That first book, a Disney book, included Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck. I sat with the book every day, and asked any adult who would listen to read it to me repeatedly. Unknown to them, as I sat in the crook of an elbow, hanging on to every word, I was truthfully studying. I was listening to their voice, trying to follow along with the words they were magically lifting off the page. After I began reading, I didn’t stop.
I read everything I could find. I would browse my father’s bookshelf, which was a simple shelf built into the wall. There were six shelves, each one lined with works of fiction by the best horror authors of the day. Placed in alphabetical order from top to bottom, I would sit for hours, studying the book bindings on the brown shelves. Finally, I would choose one, pulling it down and depositing myself into the overstuffed leather brown chair in my father’s study. The sun would pour through the window, onto the fake spider tree next to me, giving me sufficient light until sunset. When the sun disappeared, my dad would shoo me out of his office. I would head to my bedroom to keep reading, sprawled across a pile of decorative pillows and a pink and white bedspread. I’d read until something interrupted me – dinner, bedtime, homework – but I’d never be able to pull myself away. My thirst for reading grew, and I would eagerly read anything my teachers would present to me. Encyclopedias were my poison; there were so many worldly facts reaching beyond my small town in these large, bound treasures. I spent hours in the library with these non-fiction beasts of perfection.