Carrie at Reading to Know had a great post about the kinds of books she read growing up.
It made me start thinking about my own reading history - and it is not pretty.
Although my dad had wall to wall books in his office, I remember reading mostly comic books. My brother loaned me his Mad Magazines and the nearby used bookstore had Classics Illustrated comic books (which probably ignited my passion for classic literature in later years.) In high school I read Grace Livingston Hill books every day. I also remember my mother reading bedtime stories from East of the Sun and West of the Moon.
I have two very distinct memories of "ah-ha" moments with books. Once (when I was about eight years old) I was lying on my parent's bed reading a huge, gorgeously illustrated version of The Wizard of Oz and thinking it was "the coolest book ever". Later in 8th grade I accidentally discovered Jane Eyre on the library shelves. As a shy, plain kid trying to live out my Christian principles in a seemingly hostile world, I thought Jane was my best friend.
I had a remarkable 4th grade teacher who read Shakespeare and poetry to us. I credit her with the fact that I became an English major in college. There, of course, I was exposed to fine literature for practically the first time. I always felt guilty that while other students complained about their homework load, I was having a blast, getting to read whole novels every weekend.
That was thirty years ago and my reading tastes have evolved a lot. When my children were young we read hundreds of books in the Sonlight Curriculum - a treasure trove of previously undiscovered titles. Classic Literature is now the meat and potatoes of my reading diet, and I read more non-fiction and devotional literature than I did as a young wife and mom. Somewhere along the way I lost my taste for fluffy romance novels, but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy a fine love story now and then.
One of the joys of blogging has been meeting other lovers of excellent books and comparing our reading journeys.