My Favourite Childhood Book.

My mother will tell you that I was a curious child. More fascinated with a picture book than I ever was with toys. And honestly… how do I say this without sounding like the Donald? Let’s just go with: I loved books. Obsessively.

Between the ages of 3 and 8, the books I read were your everyday, garden-variety fairy tales. You know the type: the princess is always saved by the gallant, noble, handsome—and I am absolutely sure of this—boring prince. And, of course, they lived happily ever after.

I honestly think this is why so many of us grew up with a soft spot for the bad boys. Those “good princes” were certified snooze-fests. I mean, come on—if I had to pick between someone who spends all day polishing his armor and someone with a little bit of edge, I know which one I’d choose.

Growing up with a single mother, I quickly grew impatient with these princesses. I remember thinking: why couldn’t Rapunzel just let down her hair and escape? Why couldn’t Cinderella stand up for herself instead of waiting for magic shoes to tell her she was important? And the Little Mermaid—giving up her voice just to get legs so she could chase a man? Huh!?

I wanted more kick-ass female characters, not docile ones waiting around for someone else to rescue them. I wanted characters who solved their own problems, outsmarted the bad guys, and maybe occasionally swore a little when the world got messy.

But unfortunately, those were the only books I had access to. Asking for different ones? Not an option. Fear of being whooped is a powerful deterrent, people. Seriously.

Sidenote: This is why I adore what Shrek did to the whole fairy tale concept. Finally, a princess with sass, brains, and a spine! And let’s be real—Fiona totally deserved better than Prince Charming anyway.

Then came the golden age: age eight and discovering the school library. Oh, the magic! I realised I could believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast (Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass), learn that all Wilbur wanted was love (Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White), and be amazed by the might of Hercules and the heroic Knights of the Round Table.

Books stopped being just stories—they became portals. They opened doors to imagination, adventure, empathy, and all the “what ifs” I’d never dared ask aloud. They gave me heroes, villains, and complicated, interesting females who didn’t need a man to save them.

Honestly, discovering the library was like finding a secret garden where everything was possible. And the best part? No one told me to sit still, no one graded my imagination, and no one laughed at my curiosity.

Books gave me a universe where I could question, dream, and plot my own adventures—even if only in my head. And that, my friends, is exactly why I’ve never stopped reading.