The first book I remember reading was in the first grade. It was the same year I met my first love.
He was a dark-haired boy with nerdy glasses and a weird talent. I think he had family issues – he didn’t talk a lot and looked slightly ruffled at all times. He had green eyes (like his mom, I was told). I liked him because he was extremely loyal and brave. He was good to the core.
He also had a strange scar on his forehead, shaped like a lightning bolt.
…It was Harry Potter. I had a fat crush on Harry Potter.
That first day I picked up The Sorcerer’s Stone, I opened a door that thankfully never closed. From then on, my games on the playground got more and more imaginative. My unfortunately bowl-cut head was filled with daydreams of wizard school, magic, and friendships and love so strong they could overpower the worst of evils.
I’ve been an avid reader since then. I don’t remember every book as vividly as that one, but there have been times where I have felt that same level of amazement. I think there’s a little six-year-old in all of us who yearns for these worlds. But that six-year-old isn’t naive in this thinking; they are quite wise. To believe in the magical is the most important lesson I learned from being an avid reader.
THE GREAT MACKSBY 