For as long as I can remember, my family has loved books. Oh, how I would look forward to curling up with a fantasy tale that transported me through kingdoms and across vast oceans, or a striking World War II novel that caused my stomach to twist into knots. How euphoric it felt to walk out of Barnes and Noble with seven, eight, nine new books stuffed with mystery, emotion, suspense, humor and wisdom.
Only after reconnecting with my longtime love for fiction over the February break did I make a harrowing realization. I had almost completely stopped reading. As I adjusted to high school during my freshman year, I made the excuse that I was far too busy with other aspects of my life to devote time to the hobby I had once treasured. Even still, I was confounded when a number of my friends admitted that they had watched iconic films like “Harry Potter” and “Percy Jackson,” but had never bothered to open the books.