For the longest time, I used to be limited to a maximum of three books to check out when I went to the library. I think my mom was under the impression that if I checked out any more books, I would forget to eat and sleep because I was so busy reading. Even when I literally had nothing else to do, she wouldn’t let me check out more than the set amount. Of course, in hindsight, she was probably correct. If I could have, I would have spent the entire day and night just reading. I even used to read while I was eating my meals for the longest time.

But I didn’t read because I was bored or because I didn’t have anything else to do. Rather, I loved falling into the different universes that the authors had created. I loved researching the different stories (even in elementary school) and wondering why the authors had made specific decisions. I learned a lot of random knowledge from children’s novels, from who invented paper to what to do if someone was telling you an unsolvable riddle.

I used to make up conversations between myself and the characters in these stories. What would Luna Lovegood think about the amount of homework I was getting in class? I also used to create vivid stories about what would happen if I ended up in my favorite stories, like Harry Potter or Percy Jackson. Which house would I be sorted into (even if it was not my correct house)? Which godly parent would I have if I was a camper at Camp Half-Blood (and later, would I be Greek or Roman?)

I loved the fairytales I read so much that I wanted to be able to find a story to call my own. With every word I put to pen and paper, every song and every article, I feel like I am giving some part of me a voice. Eventually, I will find a proper (or rather, not proper) story that is bigger than me, that draws a person in when they read it and almost refuses to let them out. Because while experiencing another person’s universe is brilliant, as the author of Inkheart says, “Writing stories is a kind of magic, too.”