I was young. Way young. When it started, my descent into depravity was caught on my dad's old movie camera. I stared at him, innocent of anything but his intrusion as I sat on my potty, a huge book covering my lap. It got worse–a few years later I was covering my bed-side lamp with a blanket and sneaking books under the covers in a desperate attempt not to get caught reading after I'd been sent to bed. Then I was reading in the tub, thank goodness no one invaded my privacy there, and I only dropped a couple of books. Soon I was reading morning, noon and night. I'd get sent outside to play, and I'd climb a tree and read a book. I'd be sent to the table, and ordered not to bring a book with me, so I'd read the back of the cereal box. If I was stuck in a bathroom without a book, I'd read the back of the shampoo bottle. Even now I'd rather read than clean, rather read than go to concerts, rather read than visit the dentist, rather read than work. I have books in the kitchen, books in the living room, books in the bathroom, books in my home office, books in my car. And now with my Nook, I have hundreds of books in my purse. I go to Barnes & Noble on Friday nights to read.
I'll never quit. Never! I'll quit reading when you pry my cold, dead hands off my book!