This is a very interesting topic. As I try to formulate my response it occurs to me that I have undergone changes over the years...many and extreme changes.
My interest in reading began in the 4th grade. My teacher, Mrs Myrtle White, a homely 5'x5' lady covered with freckles. She was a kind and gentle soul and she loved kids and was determined to expose us to the magic of reading. She told us repeatedly, "You can go any where, do anything, be anyone. You can learn about your world and the people in it. The pleasure and knowledge you can find in books is infinite."
If we behaved ourselves during the week, on Friday she would read to us after lunch until the bell rang. The first book she read to us was, Johnny Texas on the San Antonio Road (I can't remember the name of the author). Her voice was perfect for reading aloud. Friday afternoons became the highlight of my week.
I was hooked...big time. I started out reading biographies, mostly sports figures; Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, etc. Over time my interest in other genres expanded to various types of fiction as well as non fiction.
I developed a list of authors who's writing I enjoyed. I bought and kept many of the books they wrote. In no particular order: Steven King, Clive Cussler, John Sanford, Michael Connelly, C. J. Box, Lee Childs, James Patterson, Larry McMertry, Kathy Reichs, Robin Cook etc, etc, etc.
Eventually I had a substantial library and would often go back and re-read one of them. But, eventually, I began having trouble with my hands. Carpel tunnel, arthritis, nerve damage and peripheral nephropathy. Some things became increasingly difficult to manage. None worse than holding a book or electronic device.
In October of 2020 we moved up here to North Texas and I didn't see any point in taking the books I was now unable to read. It hurt me but I gave them away to friends and relatives.
I really miss reading. A lot. But I will always be grateful to Mrs. White for inspiring me to become a reader. It enriched my life beyond measure.
