Popular Fiction: Out Of My Mind, Classic

The way I’ve gone through literature in the past and how I have gone through it now, have changed drastically. In fact, it has changed quite a bit. When I was once a wee lad, I used to read a lot. Mostly likely I would’ve read most of the time because my mother would make me read the same book over, and over, and over all the time. The book that we read together is Love You Forever by Robert Munsch. If I had my own copy today, I’d read it quite often on my own due to the current situation with my mother. This book had meant so much to me since I was a child because of the personal story that was created through the pages, the story of the bond between my mother and I. But, I believe that after reading

Reading was the new outlet for my imagination and the stories I read fascinated me. They weren’t too unlike the scripts of computer games or the own stories I came up with on my own, but books actually had the action and emotional aspects written out. And again, while my peers were reading things about growing up, things that had morals and would teach valuable lessons (I remember one book about a shoplifter who had to do community service at an animal shelter), I read real fiction: Jurassic Park, Dragonriders of Pern, Lord of the Rings… Stuff of fantasy and science-fiction that let my mind stray from reality. Stuff that kept my imagination alive while I was being forced to learn multiplication and the names of countries. Of course, my teachers encouraged me to keep reading, as long as I wasn’t doing the reading in the middle of their lectures. But it wasn’t because of their influence, however, that kept me interested in books. It was because I loved it. It put pictures into my head and made me think. So I kept reading. But even then I knew reading wasn’t enough… Yes, the stories were fascinating, but they weren’t what I wanted. Back then I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but as middle school came to a close, I found it.

My earliest and most beautiful memories about reading was in my second grade when I was eight years old. I can still remember when my mother bought me a book called “Habia una vez”, the name in English is once upon a time. The book was all about awesome and amazing stories for kids. In October the twenty second, 2005, when I finally read the first story by myself, she was with an indescribable happiness in her eyes while looking at me. As a result of seeing my mom, glad of me, I decide to continue reading the book till the end of it. But, the best part is that this book is still with me. I have read all those stories more than ten times and I still since back then. Today I am twenty years old and I still, save that

I forgot about the books I had hidden. Every day, I did my homework mechanically. I went to bed on time. Then, I read every book I had left three times or more. I memorized “The Hollow Men” before I knew what it meant. I can still recite the biography of Florence Griffith Joyner. I still know every short story written and illustrated by Joni Eareckson Tada.

But like Italo Calvino said, a work read at a young age and forgotten still “leaves its seed in us,” and I believe that's true because we are molded by and all experiences, whether we retain them or not. An experience that I slightly remember, however, is being at my old house with a board book about a litter of puppies. I distinctly remember being in my room, on the floor, and hearing my sister’s voice from across the room. The book was only about five or so pages, but I recall reading and going through that book and the rest of the series multiple times. I even remember reading to and helping my sister with those books when she got older. Middle school was also a place I was able to explore books I was interested in, especially Andrew Clement’s, until I was introduced to young adult novels in 8th grade. My English teacher, Mrs. Corey, told us to pick out and read a book to do an assignment on later. Since I had read all of the books the library offered by Clement’s, I went to ask her what she recommended. She asked me a numerous amount of questions about

I was hooked from book one (The Absent Author), and spent hours every day paging through the books on my own time, which would in turn increase my vocabulary, enhance my analytical thinking, and improve my writing skills. In all honesty, those books granted me a love for reading that couldn’t be satiated. They opened up a door for me that would provide solace, comfort, and happiness in the coming years, and I am forever grateful for being granted a personal outlet. Books have become something no one can take away from me, and every person deserves to have something permanent; I’m just glad I found mine when I

Out of my mind was an awe inspiring book to many of the handicapped and just those who feel left out and unable to do something that others can. This book shows the harshness and sadness of life and how bad things can get with the added idea that in the end things may never even get better. It truly earns the name of a New York times best seller and is truly the best. The plot, the characters , and the major events is delicately put on, so the story is fascinating and entertaining work of literature, with a good connection to real life.

My mother always read at least one story to me every night before I drifted off to sleep. Her doing so influenced many aspects of my life. I enjoyed every book that was construed to me, and the way she read the books made me feel as if I was inserted into the story myself. Every emotion that the characters felt somehow transferred to me. Each and every book that I have read taught me a different lesson or brought a different emotion. e

Growing up in a family of bookworms, it is unavoidable that I would become a reader of great fiction. My mom read to me from the time I was born, and it wasn’t long before I was reading back to her. From books on backhoes to children’s literature, we read almost everything together. In elementary school, I read Holes and The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp multiple times, as I loved them so much. These two books about somewhat ordinary boys facing unusual situations offered an opportunity to dream about how I would handle some unknown, fantastical situation if presented a chance.

One of my earliest memories as a child was of my father’s imposing dark-oak bookcase, stocked full of tomes far bigger than my young mind could comprehend. The case loomed over the living room of my childhood home, so many more of my memories have that tower of knowledge and dust as an intimidating backdrop. However, the bookcase always felt much safer when my father was around. With him, it turned into a place of exploration, with me asking my father what “this and that book are,” “what are they about,” “are they good.” So from a young age I built a connection between literature and my father. He was the one I went to time and time again as my reading skills developed, impatiently blurting out to him what happens in my short picture books

As a child, every night before going to sleep my mother would set me on my wildest dreams. She would read me my two favorite books Another Monster at the End of this Book and Are You My Mother? Other nights she might surprise with a Dr.Seuss book, such as, Green Eggs and Ham, The Cat in the Hat, or The Foot Book. Dr.Seuss was one of my favorite authors; we had almost every book written by him. I remember trying to teach myself how to read a Dr.Seuss book when mother wasn’t around. Going to my Grandmother’s house I would bring a different book every visit. I would read to her Clifford the Big Red Dog, No David, Corduroy, the Snowy Day, and Dick and

My relationship with literature goes way back to the first time I read a chapter book seriously. I believe it started with one special chapter book that my appreciation for a good book began. Parvana’s journey by Deborah Ellis was my special extraordinary pull to literature. This book was a breathtaking vivid journey for me. It was not a simple book. It was a book that placed you in the story. A book that brought you soulfully into the destination and places the main character travels through. A book where you feel like the main character yourself and experience the same emotions. I still remember a vivid moment the book projected for me. The moment when a girl who believed she was forever safe amidst landmines gets blown to pieces was a memorable image i still remember. Not because I particularly enjoy blowing people. But the emotional connection the book created for me to the character really hit me when character gets killed descriptively. It was one of those

My most memorable literary experience isn’t really one singular event, rather the reigniting of interest in sitting still and reading a book. Growing up, in elementary and middle school, I loved to read. I don’t know if being an only child and an introvert fed that interest or birthed it, but it was deeply rooted. Despite that, starting my senior year in high school and following into my early 20s that interest waned. Or rather was upstaged by other blossoming interests in my boyfriend, working full time, making big girl money and the independence that brought. And soon enough bars too. You can’t read a book in a bar.

Over the summer I was opened up to a new and adventurous side of literature. From a plane crash and savagery, to racial issues, to child suffrage it really widened my view on life's hardships. Reading Ellen Foster, Lord of the Flies, and To Kill a Mockingbird really stretched my imagination. Each book had there own twists and turns, but I believe they all linked in amazing ways. One way all three novels connected in my opinion, would be how tenacious kids are when they have to overcome adversity.

Bedtime in my household brought storytime. The five of us gathered in the living room every night to enjoy the book of the month, conquering it together chapter by chapter. No matter what the book was, you’d find the five of us in the same position every night. My mom and I cuddled up on one horrible, olive green colored couch, my dad, the reader, on another with my sister leaning over his shoulder, making sure she didn’t miss a word. And of course my brother, probably found in a chair by himself across the room, way too cool for all this “family stuff”, but secretly holding on to every word that came off the pages of those books. And boy were there a lot of books. I remember listening to my dad start each night by saying a variation of the words “Only a few pages tonight, you tired kiddos ought to get to bed” as he then proceeded to yawn through the words of every single book in the Series of Unfortunate Events, along with Harry Potter, Watership Down, and so many others, with his giant ugly reading glasses on, making him look like a male version of Edna Mode from The Incredibles. Of course me, being very young, didn’t really catch much of the plot of these books, as I usually passed out by the second page of the chapter, but that didn’t stop me from loving every second of this story time that I was conscious for.