Contributor: Priyanka Thupili
Like many children, my first reading experiences were dominated by illustrations plastered across pages and the captions that accompanied them. As a four-year-old, I relished flipping through pages and wreaking havoc upon them with the scribbles of crayons and whatever instruments I had access to at the time.
Not too long afterwards, I progressed to books with fewer pictures, if any. Once I turned six, I was rather proud of the fact that I was now civilized enough to stop scribbling in books. Apparently, so were my parents; this was around the time my mother introduced me to the local public library. We had established the habit of a weekly excursion to this oddly quiet place, and as I learned to read faster, I grabbed more and more books. When I was a six-year-old, the first few of these books that legitimately had me hooked were from R.L. Stine’s “Goosebumps” series. Read more