A friend of mine recently posted a Facebook status asking whether or not people genuinely liked reading. I sarcastically commented something along the lines of, “Kinda… maybe. Not much at all.” Everyone in that particular comment thread knew me well enough to know what a joke that statement was. It was a flippant and sardonic remark, but it really got me thinking about my love for all things literature.

I’m a huge reader. I just am. Here is my formal disclaimer that everything I say about my reading habits is in no way a humble-brag or meant to pat myself on the back. (Okay, maybe it is, but it's mainly so you understand my frame of mind. Hopefully, we agree on some things.) I simply love to read. When I was little, I had trouble getting to sleep most nights. I remember asking my grandmother to tell me stories until I fell asleep when I would spend the night with her. Mostly, she regaled me with tales of her childhood and life experiences. I would lay next to her, entirely enraptured, and I never would doze until the story was finished, but then I would drift right off to sleep. Eventually, MawMaw got tired of telling me stories every night, so I began to ask her to read to me. She read constantly, and so did my great-grandmother. I wanted to be like them, so I wanted to know the stories they were reading, too.

MawMaw reading to me did not last very long. Turns out, our interests in books were not all that similar. She tired of the Nancy Drew saga after a few installments. “You could just as easily read this to yourself!” she huffed at me one night. Could I? Somehow, in my six-year-old brain, I had never dared to imagine that I could read for myself. It seemed feasible, though. What was stopping me from reading to myself? I knew how to read. I could sound my letters out and figure out the words. I just had never tried to read an actual book to myself. I had always relied on adults to do that. If I could read to myself, then I wouldn’t have to wait for someone to sit with me. I could encounter stories whenever I wanted. That was tempting. Nancy’s mysteries weren’t going to solve themselves, and MawMaw was obviously frustrated at being pulled away from her own reading material. I made up my mind. I was going to do it. It couldn’t be that hard, right?

I have never once looked back. From that moment on, reading has been so much more than a pastime or even a passion for me. It’s a way of life. It’s necessary for life.

By the time I entered third grade, I had read all of Nancy’s adventures. I had been to Narnia seven times. I had read quite a few installments of "The Boxcar Children." My third-grade teacher recognized my immense love for reading and helped sow it. She read our class "Bridge to Terabithia" that year, but instead of making me wait for reading time each day, she loaned me a copy of the book so I could read it on my own. That was the first time I can remember being truly changed by a book. It just stuck with me. I promised my eight-year-old self that I would name my future daughter Leslie, and I fully intend to keep that promise.

Between third and seventh grade, I read everything I could get my hands on. I remember getting in trouble for reading "Where the Heart Is" when I was about ten. Looking back, the content was probably a bit too mature for me at the time, but I wasn’t reading it for the love story. I found Novalee’s journey interesting and compelling. The characters seemed to spring from the page, and I loved them all dearly. Now, I find it ironic that "Where the Heart Is" was the novel I was scolded for reading because it features one of my all-time favorite quotes about reading: “Are there any wrong ones, Forney? Are there any wrong books?” The short answer is no. There are no wrong books. I’m a firm believer that every book has some merit or value. There’s something to be gleaned and learned from every story. Albeit, maybe not to be gleaned by a ten-year-old from a story on Oprah’s Book Club List.

Seventh grade is when literature really came alive for me. I know it probably sounds as though it had been alive forever, but something far deeper was ignited that year. I had a teacher who somehow just made it all click for me. I remember groaning when she assigned "A Christmas Carol" as reading that holiday season. (Blasphemy, I know. How could I ever groan at Dickens?) I had attempted to trudge through "A Christmas Carol" a year or two prior and had hated it. I just didn’t get it then. This teacher implored me to try again. I didn’t see what the point was. I had hated it before. I was bound to hate it again. Boy, was I wrong. I absolutely loved it. I only gave it a second chance because of Mrs. Matsuzaki’s persistence, and to this day it is one of my favorites.

That’s when I fell in love with the classics. For a span of about two years, I mainly read classic novels. Dickens, Austen, Fitzgerald, Salinger… I even got ambitious and tried Melville and Joyce. I also adopted the personal philosophy that anything worth reading is worth reading more than once. I like to punctuate the reading of something new with a rereading of something old and beloved. "To Kill a Mockingbird" is my all-time favorite book, and I make a point of rereading it every summer. Surprisingly, it is not difficult at all for me to say it is my favorite. Nothing else is really even in the running for the number one spot. Nothing moves me quite like Harper Lee’s words.

Throughout high school, I read whenever I could find time. I fell in love with Vonnegut and Faulkner. I also began reading biographies in addition to novels. I still have to read every night in order to fall asleep. Usually, I end up reading for two to three hours a night. It is ironic that MawMaw started me on this journey because she frequently gets enraged with my keeping a light on through the wee hours of the morning.

I just cannot fathom not loving to read. I cannot imagine my life without the influence of so many authors and characters. I truly do not know who I am without them. To paraphrase Rory Gilmore, I’ve been able to lead multiple lives thanks to them. In thinking about my absolute adoration for reading, I’ve realized that the characters are ultimately the reason I enjoy it so much. It’s not so much about the simple act of reading as it is the people about which I get to read. Nancy Drew’s unwavering determination to unravel the truth, Leslie Burke’s unfailing devotion to fantasy and imagination, Novalee Nation’s unconquerable resilience and ability to love, Scout Finch’s unfaltering sense of justice and trust in Atticus… These are the reasons I love to read. These characters, and a plethora of others inspired me and impacted me. They challenged and changed me. They affected and altered me. They taught me important life lessons that I did not even realize I was absorbing at the time.

I will forever be indebted to them for the indelible influence they have had on my life and personality. They and the books they inhabit are much more than mere stories to me now. As cliche as it sounds, they are more like old friends. I share memories with them. They have been with me through trials, tribulations and triumphs. And though they may not live and breathe, they force me to feel, and I find solace knowing that anytime I need them, I can find them tucked safely within the binding of the book that led me to them originally.