So … I have a confession.
There was a time in my life that I refused to pick up a book for pleasure. I know. I know. It’s shameful. After having terrible literature shoved down my throat during college (there was this one Comp professor who–if I recall correctly–I lovingly referred to as the Spawn of Satan), I looked at books with disdain. They were hideous pieces of murdered trees used only for torturing my soul.
Fast-forward five years to 2009. My sister-in-law was gushing over this young adult series that was so captivating, she had read all four books in two weeks. I very hesitantly agreed to give them a try. Ten chapters into the first book, and I knew my life was taking a dramatic turn toward the literary. The books? Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight Saga, of course. It’s one of those series that no one really wants to admit they like (mainly because of the movies … but really. Sparkly teenage vampires? *shame-face*).
It was my gateway drug. I began picking up new series after new series. I started with mostly young adult: Hunger Games, Vampire Academy, and Fallen. Then some Orson Scott Card thrown in for my sci-fi-loving side: Ender’s Game and Ender’s Shadow. I read the first book of the Eragon series to indulge my love of fantasy. Then I moved on to adult paranormal: The Elemental Mysteries, Sookie Stackhouse, and the Fever series. And I rounded it out with some classics (mostly Jane Austen).
Of course there were several other series thrown in with those. I just can’t stop reading! It took one tiny push in the right direction, and I found myself longing for more.
But if it hadn’t been for Stephenie Meyer, I never would have gotten to this point. I wouldn’t have written my first novel and started working on my second. So thank you Ms. Meyer. You were the spark that ignited my passion. And I’m not ashamed to admit it.