A Look at the Beginning

         There are many things in life I admire, but only a few I truly treasure. One of these treasures is my mother’s book collection. I can remember sitting on her bed at the age of seven or eight, just staring in awe at the rows of novels lining the bookcases. They seemed sacred somehow, each one possessing knowledge and excitement beyond my comprehension. Mom took due pride in the assortment of tales she had collected over the years and always told me that one day I would have a collection even more impressive, though I highly doubted it. I could hardly wait until I was old enough to read one of mom’s books.
         Growing up, I read everything I could get my hands on, from Romeo and Juliet to the local newspaper to R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps series. I was a kid in the metaphorical candy store; all around me, concerned parents shouted, “Our children need to appreciate reading!” and, “We want more books in the classroom!” The school board was constantly ordering more and more books to fill the community’s growing demand. It was a young reader’s dream come true.
         However, one Sunday when I was ten years old, I had exhausted my personal supply of reading material, and the library was closed. Needless to say, I was bored. I wandered aimlessly around the house, looking for something to occupy me for the rest of the day, but finding nothing, with the exception of the remote control’s instruction manual. When my mom came home from work that night, she noticed my restless behavior and asked what the problem was. I explained it to her carefully, though I suspected she couldn’t help me.
         “Just take a book off my shelf,” she suggested casually, as if it were no big deal. I stared at her in stunned silence for all of half a second, then dashed to her room to grab a volume from the bookcase before she changed her mind.
         I reverently selected from the collection a white, slightly worn paperback titled Cradle and All by James Patterson. The back cover’s promise of a suspenseful mystery with unforeseen plot twists thoroughly intrigued me, and I began reading immediately. The book, however, wasn’t as easy to read as I thought it would be, and after two days, I had only reached the fourth chapter. Utterly disappointed in myself, I gave up and replaced the novel in its empty slot on the shelf. After a few days of moping, I tried to return to the books and magazines that had once captivated me, but I found that they didn’t hold the luster of my simpler days. They had been ruined by my overeager ambition.
         Brooding on the subject for no more than a day, I understood what I needed to do: I had to conquer mom’s books. As soon as I got home from school the following Friday, armed with motivation and a renewed sense of confidence, I grabbed Patterson off the shelf, flopped onto my bed, and began to read feverishly. I read the rest of the evening, and all day Saturday; finally, by 3:30 Sunday morning, I had tackled the last word on the last page, and I set down the novel triumphantly, convinced in my ability to fulfill the goals I had set.
         Since then, I have read almost every single book in mom’s stock, each time reminding myself of an age when I thought that feat to be impossible. Now, whenever I face a particularly daunting obstacle, I just reach into my pool of memories, pick out this one, and remember that I can do anything I set my mind to. Mom always said that someday I would have a collection even more impressive than hers, which I now understand because all the time, we're adding to the original. Over the past couple of years, as my own unique interests have developed, I have been expanding our collection to include different authors, different genres, and different ideas, allowing both myself and my mom to explore the natural wonder of creative thinking. I just hope that one day, my children will be able to experience the same passion for books that I do.