![]() ![]() And thanks to those books, she now loves to read other things on her own. ![]() I remember book s from my own childhood that I read into pieces. They are worn out and dog-eared and the spine is cracked and I adore looking at them. My kid has now read all three, one million billion times each. Sisters is actually book two in Raina’s series about her own life. ![]() Because she went and read the whole thing on her own. She’s an only child, and siblings are VERY interesting to her, so I thought, why not? I can read it to her, sure.īut then I didn’t have to. Then last year, when she was seven, she came to visit me in the bookshop I work in and saw a copy of Sisters by Raina Telgemeier on the shelf and asked me to get it for her. ![]() She’s always loved being read to, but reading on her own? Not so much. I ‘m not a kid, but now that I have a kid, I can see how that happens for her. (Note to self: check with my mum in case I was.) Now that I’m super old, I don’t really remember things from a long time ago, like: how old was I when I got into books? Did I always love reading? Was I good at it, or did I just like it a whole lot? I can’t remember a time before reading and writing was a massive part of my life, but it’s not like I was born with a book in my hand. ![]()
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