I forgot how to read for fun.
I’m not sure when it happened. I must have been pretty young. When I first pulled out a book and thought—-
“So this is where the magic went.”
When I pretended to fight with tiny monsters in my backyard. When I vowed to be the strongest warrior in all the land. When I decided to be a girl who had power over wolves, ready to fight crime and ensure that the citizens of our good city were safe.
I pulled out a book and read about knights who were bullied because they were girls.
Then they saved a kingdom.
Somewhere along the way, people taught me that the good books, the only ones worth reading, were books that made you feel miserable inside. If you didn’t read to feel miserable, to understand that humans, deep down, are full of agonizing days filled with emptiness and nothing…
Silly child. There’s no such thing as magic.
I grew older and opened a book. The first book I’d tried reading for a long time. It was about a girl. She, too, wanted to be a knight. I was a little older. The book was a little bloodier. A little more romantic. But, at its core,
It had magic.
And that’s when I remembered how to read.