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When I was a kid, I loved having a book in my hand. I still do. I wasn't a fast reader, but I was a steady reader. I read all of The Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, and Cherry Ames books.

I fell in love with reading when I was allowed to choose whatever books I wanted to check out of the library. I was around nine years old when I began choosing my own books in earnest.

I love books. I read voraciously, and I happened to have been fortunate to have been in the right place at the right time.

I knew I loved writing, and I was raised by people who love books.

I loved to read, still do, and it seemed that the writing was a result of the love of books and reading and libraries.

I loved to read and to write, but then something happened. As I made my way through school, I kept getting handed books to read that didn't excite me and didn't even remotely connect to the realities of my life.

I was passionate about reading from an early age, and I would always be carrying a different book each week.

I love all of my books. They were labors of love; I was striving to create something well done, and I do feel I succeeded.

As a child, I loved story books and wanted to be in them so desperately and live the stories.

When I was in my teens, I was very, very keen on being the author of a book. What the book was was secondary. I wanted it to be in hardback. I didn't care how thick or thin it was, and I didn't actually care what it was about.