Second grade. The Indian in the Cupboard. The first, “big” book I read all by myself. The first that introduced me to the world of words and the adventures contained therein. The first to capture my fancy and make me fall in love with reading and writing.
Ah, memories.
I don’t actually remember The Indian in the Cupboard. I just recall the emotion of finishing it. I think about how I continued onward and read Harriet the Spy followed by a slew of Nancy Drew mysteries.
I also remember crafting my own stories, which were either acted out with my brothers or played by the cast of characters I kept in a plastic bin – Barbie dolls, but they were never just dolls. They were my actors. They solved crimes; rescued damsels and knights; got into seemingly impossible-to-escape-from scrapes; faced evil, maniacal adversaries. Such stories taught me to seek the right ending. I wanted the endings I found in my books. Until I found them, I worked and reworked mine.
Writing stories, too. Once I discovered how to connect words, usually through some ridiculous spelling exercise that required using all the weekly vocabulary words in a story, I started to pen my own. Oh, they weren’t the complicated feats I played with my dolls or brothers – our stories could go on for days at a time – but they were instrumental to growing and refining my writing ability. Without those exercises, I wouldn’t understand the importance of self-discipline and working on my craft. I wouldn’t pay such careful attention to revision and editing.
None of that – the early playacting and writing of stories – would have ever occurred without the magic found in an Indian and his cupboard. That book forever altered my relationship with reading and writing.
What book made you fall in love with reading?
Image: John Morgan (Creative Commons)