As I got a little older and no longer needed a parent to read every word for me, my life shifted from the books I owned to the wealth of the written word at the local public library. We lived just a block away, so I’d spend afternoons running my fingers down the spines of the Sweet Valley High<\/em> chapter books or, sooner rather than later, the “true” ghost stories of the non-fiction section.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark<\/em> was a staple, its watercolor nightmare illustrations making me terrified to reach over the gap between by bed and nightstand to turn off the light as I went to bed. To whisper, “I know no one is in there,” to my closet in hopes that nothing would answer back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At around 10, I was finally ready to graduate to the big kid books in the library’s Young Adult section. Suddenly my love for scary stories boiled over into the works of R. L. Stine and Christopher Pike, thus creating one of my favorite memories as a young reader.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I came home from the library with four Young Adult books, eager to start reading–and so I did. Starting around dusk, I read one. And then another. And then another. Just as the sun was coming up and the birds began chirping, I finished the fourth and final book, and the only one I can actually remember so many years later: The Midnight Club<\/em> by Christopher Pike. The end of this epic night in which I read four novels from front to back ended with me sobbing for the ill-fated characters in that novels, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n By 11, I was done with the Young Adult section. But what else could I read? To my child’s mind, the rest of the library was off-limits to me. Those were for adults<\/em>. And yet, I couldn’t stay away. One sunny afternoon I crept into the fiction section, wary that I may be caught and ushered out of the library. I stepped into a random aisle–authors with last names that started with K. I saw Stephen King, a name I knew, and It<\/em>, a book whose made-for-TV miniseries I loved, and grabbed it. I was in the “adult” section for only a matter of seconds, but that was all I was willing to chance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Checking out It <\/em>by Stephen King was a harrowing experience for 11-year-old me, not for the killer clown-filled content I would quickly gobble up, but because I was worried the librarian checking me out would yell at me. This book is for adults! But she didn’t say anything. She let it pass as if it was nothing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I went on to read that whole 1,091-page book. And then I got my own copy and read it again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In adulthood, even though I’ve now been a reader for decades, I still have moments that make me so grateful for the written word. It’s in the days when it’s raining and all I want to do is snuggle up with a good book and some hot cocoa. It’s the nights when I can’t put my book down, so I stay up until 4 AM crying into the pages as I finish it, accepting that I’ll be a mess the next day. The little memorable moments as a reader continue on, growing and changing with the seasons. And just like reading a book, I wonder about my life as a reader: What will happen next?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I remember the first book I ever “read.” I put that in quotes because what I’d actually done was memorize my favorite Berenstain Bears book so I could recite it as I turned each page.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":186664081,"featured_media":1155476,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"thoughtcatalog_call_to_action":"","tc_post_redirect":"","thoughtcatalog_is_sponsored_content":"0","footnotes":""},"categories":[603230228],"tags":[603230691],"anchortext":[],"posttemplate":[],"adcampaign":[603230690],"coauthors":[603229736],"class_list":["post-1154937","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-random","tag-beyond-the-page","adcampaign-beyond-the-page-amazon-books"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/priscilla-du-preez-WWD93Icc30Y-unsplash.jpg","author_meta":null,"photo_credit":null,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1154937","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/186664081"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1154937"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1154937\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1155122,"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1154937\/revisions\/1155122"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1155476"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1154937"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1154937"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1154937"},{"taxonomy":"anchortext","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/anchortext?post=1154937"},{"taxonomy":"posttemplate","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posttemplate?post=1154937"},{"taxonomy":"adcampaign","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/adcampaign?post=1154937"},{"taxonomy":"author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/coauthors?post=1154937"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}![\"\"](\"https:\/\/thoughtcatalog.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/Scary-Stories-to-Tell-in-the-Dark.jpg?w=384&h=0&crop=1\")
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