One of my evergreen memories is of nine-year old me queuing, mother in tow, outside my local Popular bookstore on a weekend morning, just to be one of the first to get a pre-ordered copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, the fifth book in the series. 

As soon as I got it, I cracked open the first few pages, inhaling that familiar smell of a freshly printed book. With my eyes glued to the hefty tome in the clutch of my hands, my mother guided me home, reminding me to look out for traffic. (Having read to me while I was still in her womb in the hopes it’d be useful, she couldn’t really complain.) As soon as I got home, I plopped myself on my bed and read non-stop, if memory serves, for nine straight hours until I finished the book. 

This fervour wasn’t just reserved for the wizarding world of Hogwarts. There is a photograph of me as a toddler perched on the porcelain throne with a book in hand, grinning at the camera. At any mealtime, a book would be propped up in front of my plate or on my lap. I was even able to read on long car, bus, train, and plane rides, having been blessed with no motion sickness symptoms. 

As I grew older, my enthusiasm for reading dwindled somewhat. I studied literature in secondary school and junior college, and as a result, began to find reading a chore. Nothing personal against Shakespeare, Tolstoy, or Fitzgerald, but I soon tired of having to read with clear objectives: to find the most salient themes, metaphors and similes; or to indulge in an (over)-analysis of pentameters. It felt much too mechanical, much too tedious.