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I must have only been three or four when my brother first read to me. He read me the Dr. Seuss book "One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. I couldn't quite understand the words in the book, but the pictures and his descriptions were the first ever thing to get me towards liking literature.
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Before Kindergarten, books didn't make much sense to me, the words and letters just couldn't get through my brain. The first time though, looking at the Pigeon Children's Book Series, it made sense to me. I was finally able to fluently, though slowly, read through the book. It probably had something to do with the book being able to draw me in, unlike others.
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Both my brothers read an absolute ton in school. This meant my parents were buying them books left and right because they would finish them so fast. This also meant though, that I had a huge library of much more mature books to read. As a first and second grader, the words were hard to understand and the books seemed complicated. Reading them though, became a fun challenge. Trying to understand the words I didn't know, and being able to read the books faster and faster.
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As I had very little to do at home and during school, I turned to books to fill my boredom. I wasn't ever very interested in a phone or anything, as I was perfectly happy sitting down for a few hours and reading a hundred pages or so. Though, like my brothers, because of this habit I churned through books. I was reading 1-2 fairly large books every week.
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As I grew older and my brain developed, books started to make more sense. Big words no longer confused me, and it would be rare for me to find a word I didn't know. Deeper and more complex themes became more and more aware to me and previously the things I only figured out from other people's reviews, I was starting to understand myself. This allowed me to enjoy books that were much deeper than books I was reading before. These new books further increased my love of reading.
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Eventually, whittling down my brothers' huge collection of books brought me to a signed copy of the fantasy book, Dormia. The author had come to my brother's school years prior and he got his own copy signed. It was an amazing book that completely enraptured me in it. Any little bit of free time I had in school was poured into just a few pages here and there reading Dormia. This one book set my reading preferences in stone, as only similar stories have enthralled me nearly as much.
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In every book before Dormia, when I reached their end, I was happy. I felt the book was ready to end at that moment and I felt satisfied with its conclusion. With Dormia though, for the first time, I felt the book shouldn't have ended, that I wanted it to go on forever. It was the first book to leave me sad that I had to put it down. It had a sequel, which I promptly read over the next few days. Even a third book came out in the years following. I never felt like there was enough of it though.
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Eventually, reading started to have an effect on my writing as well. Without me knowing, I was taking things from the books I read and incorporating them into my own writing. I started to enjoy writing a fair bit, though not as much as reading. Creating a good story or a well structured essay, sure while not on the top of my list, were still somewhat enjoyable.
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As I got older, my workload from school only increased. Each day I'd come home with way too much homework, and the hours I usually could spend reading became less and less frequent. It saddened me to not be able to read as much as I could before, but I knew school work had to take importance over reading. I still am able to read like I could every now and then, but now it takes me much longer to read books. As a side effect more time makes the information process, digesting in my head over time.