THE BOOKS THAT BUILT ME

Whenever I stumble across a Ramona Quimby book these days — be it at a thrift store or a library sale — I grab it without hesitation. Beverly Cleary didn’t just write stories; she created the first character who ever made me fall in love with reading. 

And I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t a reader. I always had my nose in a book, always claimed the title of “bookworm” proudly. I still remember the thrill of those Scholastic book orders in elementary school — the crisp catalogs, the smell of ink, the circling of far too many titles with my pencil. And when the orders arrived? Heaven. I usually had the biggest stack, thanks to my parents who funded and encouraged my growing obsession. Those shiny covers felt like treasure. Once, I received a boxed set of Nancy Drew books as a gift and carried them around for days like a prized possession. I was a quirky kid, sure — but I found my passion early, and I’ve never let it go.

Sometimes life gets complicated and confusing, but at my core, I always know who I am: I’m a girl who finds comfort in stories. I find belonging in pages, connection in characters, and magic in the written word. I’ve grown up with ink in my blood and paper in my soul. That’s never changed.

I love books for a million reasons, but I’ll start with my mom. She’s just as much of a reader as I am — my earliest reading memories include her, and her love for stories seeped into me naturally. I am undeniably my mother’s daughter. So thank you, Mom, for handing me my first book, and hundreds more after that. Thank you for showing me that books are lifelines, companions, and portals.

Reading also saved me in quieter, lonelier ways. I was painfully shy and awkward as a child, the kind of kid who cried over not fitting in, who never knew quite what to say. And while I’ve grown into myself more over the years (awkward, still, but in a hopefully endearing way), reading was a lifeline in those early days. Books were my safety net. My laughter. My escape. My friends.

Ramona Quimby and Pippi Longstocking made me laugh when I didn’t have real-life friends who could. Anastasia Krupnik was a perfect companion. The March sisters from Little Women became the sisters I never had. And Alice McKinley? She was everything. I’ve been reading her story since I was about seven years old. We’ve grown up side by side — aging together, changing together. She feels real to me, and I’m genuinely grateful that her story is still unfolding.

I don’t need fictional friends the way I used to — I’ve been lucky enough to find my people in real life now. But those characters? They still show up for me. When I need a laugh, a reminder, a cry. They’re always waiting on the shelf, unchanged and dependable — my first and forever friends.

So here’s a giant thank you to the authors who shaped my life. Who gave me connection when I felt alone. Who gave me characters to lean on, and stories to believe in. You made me feel less strange, more understood. You changed me.

There are three authors whose work is stitched into the fabric of who I am:

• Beverly Cleary and her Ramona books got me through childhood. No character has ever made me laugh more.
• Phyllis Reynolds Naylor gave me Alice McKinley — a character who’s been with me nearly my whole life and still feels more real than most people I know.
• Megan McCafferty gave me Jessica Darling, who helped me survive my teen years. I bawled at the end of Perfect Fifths, because losing her felt like losing a part of myself.

This is why I’m a bookworm.

Why I became a librarian.

Why I am who I am.

Books were never just a hobby. They were my home.