I lay in bed propped up on one arm peaking into the book full of bedtime stories and fitting pictures my Dad holds in his hands. He sits on his knees on the floor next to me, ready to close the book before I can ask for another.
“Just one more?” I know he’ll say yes. He always does.
“Another story? It’s really time you go to sleep…”
“Pleeeaaase?” The only light in the room comes from my small bedside lamp and it’s making me sleepy, but I’m not ready to go to sleep just yet. “The one with the bunny!”
He sighs, and I grin at my victory. “Just one more. Don’t tell your Mum.”
I smile as I lean over a little further, thrilled that I’m hearing my favourite story again tonight.
“A little bunny nibbled happily on his carrot, excited to see his friend, Laura” my Dad starts, and I already recite the next sentences in my head before he gets a chance to say them.”She always gave him extra treats. Laura was special. She always made time for him, and visited every day. But that day he waited and waited, and Laura didn’t come.”
I barely hear the rest. I don’t need to, I already finished it in my head. Tired I yawn, not fighting my eyes as they get heavier and slowly fall asleep.
This is one of my earliest and happiest childhood memories. Every night my parents tucked me in and one of them stayed behind to read bedtime stories to me. Usually just the one, sometimes two if I begged well enough. The most special nights were when my sister read to me because it didn’t happen as often.
That’s how my relationship with books started. My parents reading to me every night was a bedtime ritual until I was old enough to read by myself. Once I could do it on my own reading wasn’t restricted to bedtime any more. I always had a book on the go, sometimes two, although there aren’t many books I remember now. There was one series I loved in particular, which was an adventure series about two sisters (twins I think) who got into all sorts of trouble – your typical childhood reading!
It was a huge deal when I finished a book. At first I was proud that I had read the whole thing by myself, from start to finish. Soon after the feeling of not knowing what to do next settled, and part of me was always sad that I finished something I loved so much, wishing there was more left to go – although I was always the only one feeling that way, no one else seemed to care that I just finished something incredible.
I didn’t start reading fantasy until I was around twelve. Again I don’t remember many books I read then but there was a trilogy I loved but always felt let down by at the end, since the main character had been asleep and dreaming this whole time. There’s no bigger let-down in a great book. Why can’t it be real in their universe? Why does it have to be a lie?
I didn’t start writing until I was a little older again but I’ve gone over that so often on here now that I won’t bore you with the details again. If you want details I promise you they’re on here already.
I always did well at writing assignments at school, and besides art classes writing was the only thing I was really good at.
As you can tell from my book reviews I still read a lot now. I don’t have as much time as I did when I was a child, but I still fit a little bit of reading into most days. It’s a great escape and fab research into what I love and dislike in books!
It’s been a long journey, and I can honestly say that it started when I was a toddler. I haven’t always written but my love for books and stories started around then. They’ve always been a part of my everyday routine, and unless something terrible happens they always will be.
How did you first come to writing? Have you already read books from a young age, or are books and their awesomeness something you discovered a little later in life? Share your experience in the comments below!
For all of my other musings, click me!
For Cookie Break’s home page, have a look here.