I’d like to tell her this; after all, if Oprah publishes it, then it must be true. However, I don’t. This knowledge isn’t what drew me to reading when I was a child. I never knew any of the benefits of reading, and if someone had told me it wouldn’t have mattered to me anyway. That wasn’t why I liked it. I liked it because I thought it was “fun,” as my sister would say.
I have always found reading to be an especially enjoyable activity and my passion, for it was never more prominent than during my childhood. I always had a book at hand. Wherever I went, whether to a friend or family member’s house, a party, a restaurant, school, the mall, or simply another room in the house, I always took my book and was constantly awaiting the moment when I could open it and immerse myself in the world it unlocked.
I read during each spare moment I had, and even ones that were not so spare. Any time and event was fair game - before I went to bed at night, when I woke up in the morning, while I brushed my teeth, did my chores, ate, watched TV, got dressed, or sat in class, I found time to read.
To me, opening a book was like opening a door and walking right into the story. The books that were the most influential to me, and the first I remember reading on my own, were those by Enid Blyton. When I read about silly Mr. Twiddle — who slapped his wife and kissed a cow when he meant to do the opposite — I felt as if I were right beside him. I could hear the slap and imagine the stunned look on Mrs. Twiddle’s face.
I could feel the embarrassment and remorse that Mr. Twiddle felt when he realized his mistake, his round cheeks becoming red with shame. When, on another occasion, Mr. Twiddle put his daily newspaper in the fridge and kept his newspaper-wrapped fish (kipper to be exact) in his lap to read after his nap, I could smell the fish (which I imagined smelled like sardines) and feel its weight in the paper. How did he not notice this?
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