I love books. I always have. When I was little, before I learned to read, I memorized several of my favorite picture books so that I could pretend to read. Apparently, it could be quite a hassle for anyone who ever tried to skip pages to hurry up bedtime. However, I was blessed with parents who almost always encouraged my love for the written word.

I say "almost," because I distinctly remember a fight I had with my mom around age 10. She was really angry with me and said that she would send me to my room, but I would love nothing more than to be left alone all day to read. She didn't know what she could do to punish me. So she grounded me from books. My brother loved it. I remember him saying something along the lines of, "You got grounded from something they make us do at school? You'll be a nerd for the rest of your life."

So, I'm a nerd. I kept reading anyway. In college, I became an English major, because I loved books and though that would be a nice career. (I'm still not sure what exactly I thought I would get paid to do.) Writing about books turned out to be a little more daunting than reading them. Sure, I had formed opinions on what I was reading over the years. But write an eight-page treatise on the significance of red imagery during the emotional peak of the novel? Not so much. I bounced around for a while, trying out Spanish and International Studies. Finally, I came back to English because, it turned out, I was kind of good at it. I even managed to endure the rough times, like the fall when I had to read 17 books in 10 weeks. It wasn't so bad. I think. It's all a little blurry.