Dearest Mr. Coon

Throughout my life, I have changed schools over five times, I have moved away from my hometown and loving family, and my schedule has never been constant. One thing that has always stayed the same has been my joy of jumping into a book, and losing myself in the adventures, romances, and mysteries that each story holds. Ever since I learned to read I was hooked. My mother had to make the strangest of threats by telling me that if I did not go to bed, she would remove every book from my room. Of course, I still found excuses to go on reading late into the night. I would sit in the bathroom for hours, and if I heard my parent’s footsteps approaching, I would immediately perch myself on the toilet, feigning an emergency. I even went so far as to tell my mother that I was afraid of the dark and needed a certain night light that was bright enough to read by.

I was introduced to the magical world of reading at an early age. My mom began reading to me before I could even speak. She had a way of bringing the story to life through different voices and facial expressions. She had the ability to have my brother and I giggling so much that instead of calming us down to put us to sleep, we would be bouncing off the ceiling. One of my favorite books that she read to us was Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. She made both my brother and me jump completely off a bed.

When I moved from Denver to Phoenix, I spent the entire last night in my house reading the first three Harry Potter books. Though I have often gone through stages of reading exceptionally easy books – such as the Harry Potter series, a Series of Unfortunate Events, and an array of teen girl books – I also enjoy challenging myself. Over the last few years, I have taken it upon myself to take a bite of the classics. I began buying many classic novels that I am interested in reading, but have only managed to read three thus far. I thoroughly enjoyed Jane Ere, Pride and Prejudice, and The Three Musketeers. The first summer that I moved to Phoenix, I spent most of my time reading until almost three in the morning, sleeping, then waking up and beginning again. Over the last four years, I have spent my summers working and skating, and unfortunately have not had the same amount of time to read as I would like.

Unlike my reading habits, which I consider to be one of my passions, I feel completely the opposite about writing. Though I can find enjoyment in a particular topic that I like, I have always felt as if writing was an obligation, not a hobby. Normally, I only write when required to do so, often procrastinating until the last possible moment, and not even keeping a journal. Many times I have heard that reading and writing go hand in hand, but strangely, I only really enjoy one, and often times not the other. (524)