Hello, and welcome to my totally-nerdy book blog.

First things first.  Contrary to most high school students, I actually love reading.  Do I love being forced to read specific books? No. I like having control (just like with everything else in my life, lol).  However, some of my favorite books are from the AP list. A few, yes, were a terrible experience, but others–riveting. I think I’ve had some pretty good luck in the book department!

I guess we should start at the beginning.  I mean the way beginning. Before even my younger siblings were a thing.  Since I don’t remember, I asked my parents.

“You were an only child for 18 months and you were read to every single night,” said my mom.

“You were given a lot of attention,” said my dad with an eye roll.  “Too much attention.”

Thanks Dad.  Considering I had to give that attention up to four other youngins shortly after, there was no such thing as too much at age one.

Anyway.  Apparently, after I had already memorized the nursery rhymes, they moved on to bigger books.  When my brother was born, my mom was busy with him, and my dad would read to me. The first book I read by myself was Snow by Roy McKee and P. D. Eastman.  Looking at the cover now, 13 years later, I’m hit with major nostalgia. That. Book. Was. Awesome. My younger sister Tippy would follow my lead and not so surprisingly, learned the same time that I did.  Though she wasn’t as much of a book-worm as I was, she learned FAST (always trying to be like her cooler older sister, of course). She ended up skipping two grades, by the way #proudsis.

By the time I was 7, all I did was read.  Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie.  Matilda. Rainbow Magic. Judy Moody. Charlotte’s Webb.  Anything by Andrew Clements (I met him in person at a meet & greet when I was super young because I was obsessed with his books).  Nancy Drew (I have read every single one of those yellow covered ones from like, the 60s, and I still reread them from time to time.  Just thinking about Nancy Drew makes me want to go read them now). When I got older, I dived into the world of Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, the Selection Series, just about every “teen” series you can think of.  My parents were constantly taking me to the library in Natrona Heights. The front desk lady scared me for some reason, but she knew my name. All throughout elementary school when a project asked, “what is your favorite hobby?”, I’d immediately put reading.  I still remember helping my class win the AR contest in 2nd or 3rd grade because “I would read the books with a lot of points”. It’s so funny looking back; I really try-harded on those AR competitions.

6th grade was my big historical fiction phase (also the year I first read my favorite book of all time–The Help.  I loved it so much I finished it and started it again). That summer, I read Charlotte Doyle, a book we would be reading in 7th grade discovering literature.  I’m still embarrassed to this day because I accidently spoiled something to the class, not realizing what chapter we were on. So, ya know, it’ll be a normal day, I let my guard down and my obsessive thinking takes over, I re-examine every uncomfortable situation I have been in (I’m pretty sure every human does this and if you don’t, tell me your secrets), and I vividly remember how I wanted to melt right there in the back of his classroom.  In 7th grade, no one is impressed if you like to read. They are especially not impressed if you read ahead and spoil the freaking book. I didn’t raise my hand much after that.

In high school, with the AP list being the utmost priority, my “hobby” faded.  No more curling up in a corner to read after school. I had legitimate homework and other things I was prioritizing (like cute senior boys that in my head were the equivalent to Percy Jackson or Darcy Hawthorne from the Mother-Daughter Book Club (spoiler alert: they weren’t).  However, I didn’t completely stop reading. Some of the best books I’ve read were from my high school years. Mrs. Sandorff introduced me to Jodi Picoult, one of my now-favorite authors. In 2018, I chose A Thousand Splendid Suns because it was on the AP List, finished it in 2 days, and cried on my couch.  Junior year I read a lot of good books, namely All The Light We Cannot See. I was beyond frustrated by the end because of how attached I became to the main characters. I was heartbroken about that story for at least a week. This year, I read In the Time of the Butterflies which I LOVED. The number of books I read nowadays doesn’t compare to my elementary/middle school prime, but the quality is there.

Now of course, I’ve read some not so good books that make me question whoever is writing the AP list.  I’M sorry Aldous Huxley, your writing style sucks and makes me want to punch you in the face. I also read way too many articles about that stupid book so that could be stemming part of my anger.  Also, there was this book in 6th grade we read that makes me want to throw up. It was so bad, it was memorable! The House of Dies Drear. Don’t even remember why I hated it, but I did. I’m sorry Mrs. Bocce.

A while ago in English (yes, once upon a time we were allowed to gather for this thing called school.  RIP social interaction), my class had a heated discussion about how literature teaches you empathy. We watched a Ted Talk called “The Inspiring Truth of Fiction”. The majority of the class was like, “I hate books this is stupid it doesn’t teach me empathy it just shields me from the real world blah blah blah”.  Mrs. Lentz and I kept looking at each other in disbelief, because every single one of them sounded ridiculous. Call me nerdy, but being an avid reader has done more for me than any of the classes I’m taking in school (excuse me…online***) right now–a bold statement that I am willing to make.

This isn’t a poem.  This isn’t a short story.  This is real life (and also a really long, extensive prologue for a book blog that no one is even going to read) ((Except Mrs. Lentz.  Hi Mrs. Lentz!!).  I am who I am today because of the books I have read.

Beautiful things distract ourselves from our despair.  When I am going through a rough time, I pull out my personal copy of The Help and read it cover to cover.  I transport myself into the world of Aibileen, Skeeter, Minny, and the struggles that they tackle.  Suddenly, it doesn’t make my woes seem so bad anymore.  Sure, I can’t just pick up a book every time I get into a sticky situation, but it definitely helps me calm down, forget everything for a little while, and learn from my mistakes.  Fiction teaches me more than my math teacher ever has. I relate to the story (okay, I’m not saying “omg same!” when I read about the struggles of southern black women in the 60s). But still, you reflect on their feelings and emotions and connect with them.  Good books do that. Good authors do that. Anyway, this prologue is getting long so I’m going to wrap it up. But I guess the point is: even from a young age, I’ve been a reader. Because of my love for reading, I decided then I wanted to be a writer. That hasn’t changed.  And, well, lots of people read. And lots of people write. But what’s more important is how it has, truly, shaped me into the person I am today. I often have trouble concentrating on one thing. Reading has always been something that I could focus on that didn’t stress me out.  I never read e-books because I love the feeling of a physical copy in my hands.  I love the smell of books. I love sitting in libraries or Barnes & Nobles for hours.  I love being able to shut out the world around me and be entranced in the characters lives.  It’s magical, and it’s something I’ll never grow sick of doing.