My mother loves to tell the story—
My parents read to me every night. I especially loved the Little Golden Books versions of The Wizard of Oz and Bible stories. Before long, I started reading along with them, reciting the stories as they unfolded on the page. Mom and Dad assumed, as most parents would, that I’d simply memorized the stories.
They didn’t realize I already knew how to read until the day I climbed up beside my dad, who had the newspaper open to the classified ads. I started reading ads aloud to him, not hesitating over the weird abbreviations and awkward phrases classifieds encourage. To hear them tell it, I didn’t know I’d done anything unusual.
I was two years old.
I haven’t stopped reading since that day. Around age seven, I conducted my first forays into writing, with a handmade comic book. I folded several sheets of ruled paper to make a booklet, and told the story of a disembodied pair of eyes having adventures in space. Maybe you can tell I watched a lot of Doctor Who on PBS.
I now have a Master’s Degree in English, and my poetry has appeared in the Reynolds Review and the Denver Syntax. In graduate school, I wrote the book review column for the student paper. Revenue shortfalls cancelled my column, but the books kept coming. A blog seemed like the reasonable alternative.
Three book reviews appear here every Monday, and one media culture commentary appears every Friday. I read because it makes me happy, and I review because it gets me into the great discussion. I welcome all reasonable comments on my blog entries, and I encourage healthy, respectful debate.
