I’ve always loved reading, and throughout elementary school I would read obsessively. I made sure to read any chance I got. I’d read on the subway on the way from school and back, in class during free time, while walking down the street with my book in one hand and my father’s fingers in the other, and at home before bed. My favorite books (which I still have copies of in my bookcase) were The Trumpet of the Swan, Molly Moon’s Incredible Book of Hypnotism, The Phantom Tollbooth, The Witches (pretty much anything Roald Dahl), Charlotte’s Web, and many others. I remember that in 4th Grade we were allowed to take books we were reading home. I took the fullest advantage of that rule and brought home book after book, like a rat making a stockpile
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I don’t remember many titles I read from that time, I only remember being extremely miserable and hating school passionately. Going into middle school was difficult for me because I expected to be attacked from every angle after enduring such dysphoria. I eventually adjusted, and thankfully my hunger for literature remained. I started to read teen fiction, and was introduced to books about girls with eating disorders, about people with mental illnesses, about people who would self-harm. I started to crave grotesque books with extremely sarcastic narrators and dark humor. In simplest terms, I read a lot of trash at that age. My English teacher in middle school often gave us creative writing assignments, and encouraged us to go wild when writing them. My favorite thing about him was that he would take the papers I wrote seriously, no matter how absurd they were. It was something I wasn’t used to and appreciated greatly. He and another teacher compiled a list of books I should read because he saw a lot of potential in me, and he knew what I was reading at the time was hindering my growth as a writer. That list helped me transition to reading books that were more advanced, maybe even too advanced for my
I don’t remember many titles I read from that time, I only remember being extremely miserable and hating school passionately. Going into middle school was difficult for me because I expected to be attacked from every angle after enduring such dysphoria. I eventually adjusted, and thankfully my hunger for literature remained. I started to read teen fiction, and was introduced to books about girls with eating disorders, about people with mental illnesses, about people who would self-harm. I started to crave grotesque books with extremely sarcastic narrators and dark humor. In simplest terms, I read a lot of trash at that age. My English teacher in middle school often gave us creative writing assignments, and encouraged us to go wild when writing them. My favorite thing about him was that he would take the papers I wrote seriously, no matter how absurd they were. It was something I wasn’t used to and appreciated greatly. He and another teacher compiled a list of books I should read because he saw a lot of potential in me, and he knew what I was reading at the time was hindering my growth as a writer. That list helped me transition to reading books that were more advanced, maybe even too advanced for my