When I was a child I loved being read to, but I never really read alone. I only ever remember reading Dr. Seuss books, because I knew them by heart. In grade four I went to a new school. I wore large red glasses to match my enormous, irregular handwriting. During our weekly creative writing classes, I made elaborately decorated hand bound books. Sometimes I attempt a title, but never more; the pages were always blank.

One day, in grade four, the school took us to a traveling exhibition at the Arts Center, its theme was The Wizard of Oz, which, coincidently, was my most beloved story in my entire nine-year-old world. At the gift shop (exhibitions always end with a gift shop) I spied a book I’d never seen, it documented the making of the Oz stage and film productions, and contained an illustrated history of the author. After noticing how intently I was eyeing the book, my teacher offered, without hesitation, to buy it for me as a gift, with the condition that I read it—and by read it she meant the words. Excitedly I gave my word, and I’ve had the book ever since.    One day I hope to read it.