The books that made me a writer

Guess How Much I Love You: as a toddler, these were the last words I heard each night before dozing off. My mom would stretch out her arms, mimicking the rabbit in the illustrations of the famous children’s book, to show me how much she loved me. She read the words while I looked at the illustrations of a grown-up bunny and a baby bunny. I always pretended those drawings were of my mom and me in rabbit form. My favorite sketch was of mother-bunny holding baby-bunny up in the air, like an airplane. These were the years when my mom lay in bed next to me and read to me for an hour each night.

The next influential book I can remember from these early years was Black Beauty. I am a horse girl through and through. I have seen every edition of the movie and have at some point worn out each printed edition, too. When I was around 8 years old, I gave my tattered copy of Black Beauty to my mom for her birthday; I felt like this was the only way to show her how much I loved her. After Black Beauty’s novelty wore out, I moved on to multiple series of short chapter books that were almost always about horses and their wholesome, preteen riders. Pony Pals, Hoofbeats, Stablemates… You get the idea.

Once strictly horse books got a little juvenile, I moved on to Little House on the Prairie. The series is a staple for a Missouri girl; this is Laura Ingalls Wilder territory. During these days, my mom still read in bed next to me every night, but we read our own books side-by-side.

Next came the years that were simultaneously pivotal in my life, yet I wish I could skip over. These were the days of angst, Harry Potter, wearing all black, Twilight, shopping at Hot Topic, and the Eragon series. The person I am today would be much less cynical if not for the heavy dose of dragons, witches and vampires from ages 11 to 13.

Thanks to the intervention of my ninth-grade English teacher, The Great Gatsby entered my life. It was the first time in my life that I read something for more than just mindless entertainment; I was reading it as an academic, attempting to impress my teacher by finding all the ways green represented money and eyes represented God. Because Gatsby was the first book I appreciated as literature, it has always remained with me. I still relish reading those famous last lines, and I have at least three editions on my bookshelf. After many years of being embarrassed to love Gatsby, like a naive ninth-grader, I have come full circle and I can unashamedly say this book will always have a place in my heart.

As a high schooler, I discovered some works that are still among my favorites: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime; The Bell Jar; The Stand; etc. I had not discovered my literary niche yet, so I was enjoying all realms of fiction work. I read the most notable King and Dean Koontz novels, but also some essential feminist works from the likes of Chopin and others.

In college, I started to become a quasi-literary connoisseur when I read The Glass Castle (only because it was 20 percent off at Barnes and Noble.) I had never considered nonfiction as anything other than research, but this book changed my opinion. Reading nonfiction – or realistic fiction, sometimes – has been what stuck with me. My life and the lives of the people closest to me have proven that reality really is stranger than fiction.

The writer I am today reads Jhumpa Lahiri, who writes about the cultural confusion of being a foreigner in Rome. I read Ottessa Moshfegh, who writes about women’s internal and external lives, and the space between the two. I read memoirs and short stories: poetry and essays. I read to understand other people’s lives, thoughts and dreams… and to maybe even understand more about my own.