There was no ah ha moment – no specific golden-hued childhood memory of me snuggled in my…
When I started the reading adventure on my own, picking my own books, I started collecting the Hardy Boys mysteries. There they are on the bookcase above the bureau in the bedroom that I shared with my brother … six … twelve … twenty-four … extending like the beige walls of a new Rome … an infallible barrier against the scary adult world that I didn’t understand.
He introduced me to storytelling. In my infancy, it was the oral tradition. In the darkness of my room before bedtime, he spun whole worlds for me out of thin air. He was masterful. His characters won my sympathy right off the bat. He understood tension. Pacing. Climax. For the most part, these stories comprised an ongoing serial concerning three orphaned tiger cubs and their adventures in the jungle. I’m guessing my old man liked Kipling.
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