“I’m never going to read! No! Reading is boring!” My mom would constantly pick up the books with the colorful drawings. I would rather look at those than read. She would drone on, each word, never ending. I would pretend to listen, but the pictures were truly captivating me.

The books, I recall, had the golden spine. They were all the same family, full of pictures, words, and golden colors. They all lived in the worn cardboard box that read “Golden Key Books.”

I remember sitting on the comfy bed with Mom or Dad, and they would read me a bedtime story. One day, behind the pictures, a bold black and white word popped up. But no, in my head, the word took on a new color, full of depth and surprises. The pictures no longer mattered; it was the words.

A gradual love started to form. As with any type of romance, there are always ups and downs, being the highest highs and the lowest lows. The words would trick me by working in cahoots with the parents, lulling me to sleep. I woke angrily, wondering why they would deceive me to take a nap after I learned to trust them.

The library card was a minor victory, leaving me off with Little Bear and his various adventures. The pictures gradually got smaller, the color sucked out and injected into the words.

I would read all day. Mom brought me over to Grandma and Grandpa’s to demonstrate my level M reading in kindergarten. I would let the words come easily. I would stay inside to read, because frankly, they were more interesting than you.

I was never going to read, and at points I believe that I was right. I don’t read, I think. The words are a foreground of imagination, and that is what they do. Reading may be boring, but the thoughtfulness and innovation is priceless.