I don’t remember being much of a reader while growing up, but I can also barely remember last week, so I may have just forgotten…
I do remember, however, diving into true crime books and psychology texts as a young 20-something; something that I’d later regret, because when you don’t end up being the criminal pathologist that you thought you’d be, you went and filled your brain with terrifying stories for absolutely no reason and omg.
No wonder I have anxiety.
These days though, it’s mostly books and periodicals about physics, space, and climate change that fill my shelves. But as an unschooling mother of three super-nerds, I’ve read more fiction in the past few years than I’ve read in all my life and I’m suddenly obsessed with stories and characters in this way that I didn’t think possible.
For instance – this morning, we finally finished reading Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone aloud together and I bawled like a dang baby when Dumbledore spoke that “there are all kinds of courage” before awarding Neville 10 points.
SEE. I KNOW.
…And yea, I’m aware that crying happy tears for Gryffindor seems a little out of character for someone who was sorted into the Slytherin House on Pottermore, but it’s like, I don’t care who you are – that tugs at the heartstrings x infinity.