I do not remember the exact moment, nor circumstance or place, when I learned to read. My memory does, however, reveal short glimpses of learning the alphabet as a kindergartener through the Letter People. Sitting on the cold linoleum floor in the kitchen, I cut out words beginning with the letter "m" from old magazines and catalogues to paste onto a piece of construction paper for Mr M. Later, I recall baking a pineapple upside down cake with my mother for the letter "u," which I had chosen as my special letter because none of my classmates wanted the vowel. I felt sorry for Miss U and sad for my friends for the lack of enthusiasm for the extremely important letter.

Nevertheless, I did somehow learn how to read. By the time I reached second grade, I was already reading at a junior high comprehension level. My favourite books to read were the Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I first discovered Little House in the Big Woods when my homeroom teacher began reading the book aloud to the class. After the first couple of chapters, I was enthralled by the descriptions and stories of a little girl my age growing up in the nineteenth century. When the final bell rang one afternoon, I promptly headed for the public library and checked out a copy of the book to read on my own. I made a game of trying the finish the book by myself before the teacher finished reading the book to the class. To my personal delight, I won. Thus, the Little House series was the first important literature in my reading career.

I continued reading with almost excessive enthusiasm throughout my elementary school years. I read the cereal box to find out the ingredients and nutritional value of my breakfast in the morning. Once at school, I would read whenever time allowed: free reading, library time, study hall, recess, and other stolen moments. Often, I could be seen with my nose in a book as I absentmindedly walked the block from the school to my house. (Perhaps Saint Lucy was watching over me because I never once was hit by a car as I blindly strolled home.) Around this time, I preferred anthologies of scary and ghost stories as well as The Baby-Sitters Club series by Ann M. Martin. I also liked to flip through the pages of dictionaries and thesauruses to learn new words.

One story stands out vividly in my mind because I thought, and still think, the book was the most terrible book I have ever read: Ghost Hotel by Larry Weinberg. If I were stuck in a waiting room in Hell, Ghost Hotel would definitely be the only piece of literature present. When I read the book for the first time, I was extremely confused at the lack of intelligible plot. Even after reading the horrific paperback at least two more time, the plot was no clearer than when I first picked up the book. And, to make an atrocious piece of literature worse, Weinberg wrote a sequel entitled Return to Ghost Hotel that I did not even attempt to read. However, since only a few books that I have read have evoked hatred within in me, I consider myself fortunate.

Once I entered junior high school, I was introduced to a whole new library of literature. I would check out seven or eight books at a time from the classroom library of my seventh and eighth grade reading teacher, even though students were technically allowed to check out only one book at a time. The teacher, knowing my ability to read an entire book in a day, however, extended me the privilege. I also became the self-appointed caretaker of her classroom library in the middle of my eighth grade year. Thoroughly annoyed by the disorder of the books, I took upon myself the task of rearranging the books by pulling everything off the racks and then placing neatly back the books under the appropriate label I had made and taped to the bookshelves. My being obsessive-compulsive was a wonderful advantage for my junior high reading teacher.

During eighth grade, I redeveloped an insatiable hunger for the printed word. With special thanks to teachers who read aloud to the class, I discovered an author by the name of Lois Duncan. I was enthralled by her books about the paranormal such as extrasensory perception and spirits. Because of books like Stranger with my Face and The Third Eye, my girlfriends and I developed an intense interest in both the supernatural and occult. Not only did we read fiction works on the subject, but we also researched additional information in the public library and on the Internet.

Also while I was in junior high, I began seriously reading the Fear Street series by R.L. Stine. I had never like the Goosebumps series because I thought the books were too childish but did enjoy the young adult level of the Fear Street books. I constantly bought copies of the books from second hand bookstores and asked for certain titles from the series for Christmas and birthdays. Even though the Fear Street books were far from what would be considered great literature, I liked the weird mystery and horror plots. I revisited the Baby-Sitters Club series around this time as well, which is a strange contrast to my other reading. Looking back, I realize how fond I was of series, a liking I still hold today.

Once I entered high school, the pace at which I devoured the written word slowed down for a bit because of my additional homework and responsibilities. I, however, did not stop reading altogether. Assigned, as part of the freshmen and sophomore English classes, was a seemingly arbitrary list of books identified with neon circle stickers from which to choose and read and finally take a computerized test. I thought the dot books, as the approved reading list became known, was a ridiculous idea. Already an avid reader, I did not need to be scrutinized by a teacher and her random books. But for the sake of my grade, I obliged the silly little list. However, I indulged neither willingly nor quietly.

After two years of dot book hell, I was finally once again free to read whatever books I chose. My method for finding reading during my last two years of high school was to simply pull a random book off the shelf in the library. I mostly read fiction with an occasional non-fiction manuscript such as a book about the history of The Grateful Dead. One of my best friends and I enjoyed several weeks of music history while lying on the floor and reading out loud to each other in study hall.

High school was also when I discovered the joys of the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling. I was at first reluctant to open Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone because I never trust public opinion on what is good and what is bad. Fortunately, I did value the opinion of a once close friend, and he convinced me to at least attempt to read the first Harry Potter book. Only a few days before the movie adaptation was released in theatres, I finished the final chapter that was entitled "The Man with Two Faces." Needless to say, I was hooked by the magical world created through the carefully chosen words of Rowling. The Harry Potter series is one of the three most important sets of books in my life.

I promptly read my way through the next three books of the series and eagerly awaited the release of the fifth instalment, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I now currently own the paperback editions of the first five books along with a British copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone and the two textbooks concerning quidditch and fantastic beasts. All the while, as I reread the series again, I impatiently anticipate the release of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, the sixth Harry Potter book, which will be available 16 July 2005.

My mistrust of popular opinion also is the reason I had never read any works of Tolkien until my first semester of college. My family dragged me to see the film version of The Fellowship of the Ring during my senior year of high school, and I absolutely hated the experience. I thought the movie was too long and did not make a lick of sense. So naturally, I did not opt to see The Two Towers in the theatre. However, living with a family of The Lord of the Rings movie fanatics, I had little choice much of the time but to be exposed. Eventually, I decided to attempt The Hobbit a third time, after two unsuccessful tries during high school. With the movies on television as my soundtrack, I was drawn into the world of Middle Earth. I thoroughly enjoyed reading about the adventures of Bilbo Baggins and decided to delve into The Lord of the Rings.

Although I did not like the movie versions at first, after reading the story, I found the films tolerable if not quite delightful. With details not or unable to be portrayed through cinema, the books were more exciting and made a lot more sense than the movies. Since finishing the series for the first time and sitting through The Return of the King in the theatre twice, I have purchased my own box set of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings along with The Silmarillion and the first five volumes of Unfinished Tales. As such, The Lord of the Rings is the third most important set of books in my life. And what books shall be added to that list, I do not yet know but eagerly look forward to the discovery.