I can’t believe I used to hate reading.

If you go to school with me, you’ll see me reading. It’s inevitable. During lunch, free periods, spaces during a lecture…every day. If I finish a book, I must have another with me immediately. Today, in fact, I finished a book during lunch and rushed off to the library before my last class. I could not go one minute without having something to read. 

It wouldn’t have been so during most of middle school. I actually used to hate reading, and I was even proud of it. How foolish was I! The fact of the matter was that I just wasn’t reading the right books, and I wasn’t reading them in the right environment. You can’t read Pride and Prejudice while having sappy pop tunes blasting through earphones. And also, I’m not sure a Harlequin romance is the best book for a boy-obsessed, hormonal twelve-year-old. 

In March of my eighth grade year, I was forced to pick up a book. I’d finished a test (we were taking it in the library) and I had nothing to do. The book was wonderful. For the first time in years, I cried over literature. I read during class, during lunch, at home…I lapped up those wonderful words. When I finished, I picked up another. It was just as good. And so began my obsession…

Please tell me I’m not the only one to, from time to time, skip showers for reading. Everyone does it…right? I mean, feeling gross for a little longer is totally worth it for pages and pages and adventures. 

I can’t be the only one.

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